


Merrily We Roll

by Greyella



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackcest (Harry Potter), Blood Magic, Character Study, Child Abuse, Complicated Relationships, Descriptive Prose Galore, During Canon, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Incest, Mentions and exploration of other pairings, Mentor Minerva McGonagall, Mentor/Protégé, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soul Bond, True Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28217601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greyella/pseuds/Greyella
Summary: The Black sisters explore (and deny) their bloodgift as they prepare to rule House Black. The Dark Lord rises, alliances are forged, and sides chosen. Minerva walks the edge of the abyss as Bellatrix stumbles toward Noir matters and Narcissa comes into her own. A slow-burn, Cissatrix central story. For adults and mature audiences only.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 21
Kudos: 14





	1. May 2, 1970 I – Court

**Author's Note:**

> **Thank You's**  
> To my beautiful co-pilot and girlfriend -- You encourage me to be me, in all my grey and bright glory. I adore you something wonderful and am so grateful we get to travel life together. To Beforeyouspeak -- There are no words to describe how invaluable our friendship has been. Here's to a decade and many more to come. To Another Girl Grasping -- You've seen this story from the beginning. I have appreciated our resurged camaraderie and look forward to your thoughts. To Enemafrost -- You've infused my muse with new motivation. Here's to new friendships and cats. 
> 
>   
> **MWRolliverse Canon Notes & Skew**  
> 1) Prior to the 1980s, Hogwarts was akin to a collegiate institution. Wizarding children were either homeschooled or attended magic academies prior to collegiate study. Hogwarts letters are sent to accepted students at age sixteen, but some pure-blood families delay attendance until age eighteen. Post 1980, in reaction to the First Wizarding War, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry became a secondary education institution. 
> 
> 2) Birthdays have been altered for sake of storytelling: Bellatrix: December 31, 1944; Andromeda: November 7, 1945; Narcissa: January 1, 1947. Assume their parents, Cygnus and Druella, were born in the 1910s. Minerva’s birthday is also shifted earlier than in cannon (1935), to October 4, 1932.
> 
> 3) Subsequently, the Black sisters’ Hogwarts attendance dates in the MWRolliverse diverge from cannon: Bella begins in 1963/64, Andromeda in 1964/65, and Narcissa in 1965/66.
> 
>   
> **The Beginning**  
> Such dark origins when we pry up the dregs of the past. I’d like to volunteer myself for this task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Solstice, loves. This remastered version of MWR has been a long time coming.

_May 2, 1970. Hogwarts._

The witch forwent her boots.

She left the dungeons and headed up and then north in the castle. Still on the grounds, Bellatrix ventured outside and followed the stone arcade into the Middle Courtyard. Her dress billowed, spooning the moon. The archway sealed behind her and left only walls, but the witch paid no mind. There _were_ windows, but they were far too high and leaded to be of use. Walled in, darkness swarmed the open sky and wiped out the stars. Moving east, Bella passed a bench or three; she was careful to avoid the ill-placed whistle weeds and headed for the main fountain. The darkness bore down on her, gulping like fiend for a meal.

The witch needed an outlet and soon.

 _‘Arranged to Lestrange, the Dark Lord approaches. Ravine rock dead, baby down in the roaches.’_ Bella’s mind sang border sanities. Putrid events had stolen the last of lingered reason and now nothing lasted, only consequence and season.

And shortcuts to classroom 1B.

She came in from the west; the east castle loop would’ve saved time but strayed too close to faculty offices. And so her courtyard route was ridiculously wayward (but rarely patrolled). Calisthenics would have been warranted had Pringle still been caretaker, but Filch and his bloody cat were inept at geography. Still. The witch squinted at the moon and kept vigilant. It wouldn’t do for a casual busybody to wrench her midnight fix. She stopped in the center of the yard—scanning—and walked circles around the fountain. The hidden door had a habit of shifting and Bella needed it to idle on one of the fortress walls; the west wall bordered nothing but arcade and air, and wouldn’t be helpful.

It was less a door and more so a defence oversight.

After hours the courtyard could be entered but, alas, not exited; students didn’t rendezvous there unless they fancied a starry night and morning detention. While such occurrences amused the faculty, the true purpose was defence. In general, Hogwart’s risk of infiltration was low; the grounds were unplottable and heavy perimeter warding had its wonders. The castle was also fortified with the greatest of protection spells. The Founders were thorough in this but still had to seal the spell with a seam. It tended to linger in the Middle Courtyard. Why, Bellatrix hadn’t the faintest. She’d found the passageway quite purposefully, after a conversation with Minerva on the nature of ward magic. All spells were eventually breachable because all spells had seams. It always came down to how well hidden such seams seemed. The witch could have gambled with other routes, given that the western option was equal parts intelligence and stupidity. Twenty-five years was a lifetime, but Bellatrix enjoyed a challenge and wouldn’t squander the last vestige of her youth.

The slightest shimmer caught her eye—and her nose twitched—finally spying the elusive door in castle rock. A wave of hand and Bellatrix stunned the seam, holding it in place. Pleased, she made haste to the southern wall. East would have been preferable, but south would do. She swept the seam-wards aside and spent a few minutes properly spacing her atoms. Bellatrix sighed as she slipped through the wall and merged briefly with Hogwarts. Her recent thesis work had been well spent, proposing an atomic taxonomy for Human Transpermeance, an experimental subbranch of Transfiguration posited by McGonagall herself.  
  


* * *

_  
Peeking in on the future:_

_A generation later, the courtdoor (along with the Room of Requirement) would be a grand omission from the Marauder’s Map. Cartographers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs were purveyors of mischief but, alas, not infallible._

_Granted, this particular entrance was only accessible to those accomplished in both Transfiguration and Human Transpermeance. Prior to the First Wizarding War, the Ministry wasn’t keen on Minerva’s research; the molecular structure of magic befuddled the Ministry and they deemed it a security risk. After the war, they flat out denied its existence. In later years, McGonagall declined to publish anything on the subject, if only to avoid old wounds and politics. She decided this branch of magic was too sentimental to abandon and too dangerous to solidify into any sort of academia._

_And so the courtdoor anomaly remained unearthed for several generations, until a brazen Gryffindor tumbled through by accident. Even then, McGonagall refused to discuss Hermione’s encounter further. Nor would she discuss its founding practitioners.  
  
_

* * *

  
Swallowed back into castle, Bellatrix zipped up the seam-wards, leaving behind a few surprise zingers. Hogwarts redistributed these amongst the battlements, surging the magic along its grid defences. Thankful for the years of company, the Slytherin considered it a service paid to the entity. Bella cracked her neck, shimmying the last of her atoms back into place. The portraits in the south corridor were none the wiser, still snoring their murmurs. Overdressed for the spring night, her skirts spilled onto floor, carrying the earth of the courtyard with. The witch turned the corner and headed north up the hallway.

Magic flicked her ear and Bellatrix smiled wryly at the long-distance reprimand. The night was too strong to lose this opportunity and she didn’t reply. Instead, the witch drew her cloak tighter and doubled the ties about her waist. Peeved, another sleepy ping rebuked her and Bellatrix bristled, fond of Narcissa’s rebellion but in no mood for joint magic. Regardless, the small comfort filled her nose with lavender and sprigs of sleep. Compromising, she sent back a roll of magic and paused, waiting for the connection to lull and fall back asleep.

Hint of tart on her face, Bellatrix checked the closest portrait, keeping time by the painted sky. The prefect patrol wouldn’t sweep the ground floor for another two hours—Bella would know, having arranged the timetable—but faculty rounds didn’t run on a rational timeline. It was a risky venture, but right now the only hallway sounds were pipes and portraits. Stealthy and satisfied, Bella walked. Bare feet padding on stone, veins loud and thoughts her own.

Back to bastion, the witch peeked around a corner, wand out and wary. Luck was her accomplice as not even a village idiot broke curfew. Bellatrix despised her bubble-headed peers, unaware of the world beyond Hogwarts. They fretted about detention whilst she prepared for demons; marriage, primarily. Unwilling to let that reality fester, the witch ruminated on the Dark Lord and his exact demands.

The witch sidled toward classroom 1B, already missing her bed. Bellatrix took a beat and breathed with her sheets. The primrose of it all softened her angles and there was a peace here that Manor Noir had never met. Then again, House Black was more a precipice these days. The family magic was strong, but their easy time was short. Her blood wriggled maggots, at the insanity of that.

The corridor was dim, the occasional sconce blunting low flames. Wolfish shadows crept up the walls, flashing over the numbers on passing doors. Barefoot, the witch was glad for skin and not booted soul. She was impatient and the corridor was still; Bella gave up on stealth and ran the rest of the corridor, her pace indistinguishable from the shadows. Incidental magic and the door to classroom 1B bust open, the wood slamming on wall and wincing splinters.

It wouldn’t be long now until the burst.

Wand forgotten in her robes, Bellatrix had her heritage and ousted it with hands. Curls flew about and she waxed magic like the Northern Lights. The magic coalesced into a hissing wad of power, murky like ocean fathoms. Her hand twitched and the nexus burst into bolts, surging outward. Bella threw the destruction about the classroom, spelling the end to her abstention. Shelves exploded and chaos washed the room with rainbow entrails. Textbooks shredded themselves and the chalkboard kindled to ash. Still raging, Bellatrix twisted her fingers until the high windows shattered, the wreckage shooting shrapnel in every direction. Glass panes gone, the courtyard night filed in (even as the protection wards sealed over the blight). Bella gathered command and expelled every last scrap of wrath. Her body tensed pleasurably and heaved a final current out her hands, Bella’s satisfied scream with it. Paused, the room suspended, its objects weightless and in reverie.

.

.

.

Blessed silence.

.

.

.

And then the rebound.

It boomeranged back, banging bright like magnesium. Power flooded into the witch and she welcomed the char. The classroom faired poorly, unable to deal with the stress of implosion so soon after explosion. Stacks of parchment incinerated. Floor tiles hovered and contorted. Desks crashed to gravity and collapsed into themselves. Vaguely, Bella registered that her hands smelled like a chimney. Spent, her limbs finally faltered and the woman collapsed in the rubble, ash on her forehead and her hair a halo. Floored, Bella enjoyed the solitude of pain and peace and quiet.

A small creak blasted through the muteness.

“Miss Black!” The professor snapped discovery and Bellatrix regretted those severe lips. The lilting brogue of Minerva McGonagall was unmistakable.

 _‘Oh shut the goddamn door.’_ Bella had forgotten the appeal of latching, clearly, and she breathed into the floor, her cheek pressed to her sigh and sins. The floorboards protested as the room settled, and in good fashion the last standing shelf waited until now to collapse. Both witches sneezed as the dust clouded and Bellatrix hissed as the shard of glass embedded in her side made itself known. Painfully. Coughing and crunching glass underfoot, McGonagall waded over to her injured apprentice and knelt and ignored her knees. Bella braced for hands and battled the care.

“Spring cleaning,” Bellatrix sassed weakly, raising her head. Her teeth were tinged red from a busted lip and her stomach didn’t appreciate the iron.

Minerva didn’t appreciate the wit.

“Stop moving,” the professor gritted out, her terror upbraiding and stern. She wanded a soft ball of light overhead. “Why is it always one of you three?”

Bellatrix couldn’t describe the panic trashing McGonagall’s face, but she thought pudding would be lovely right about now. Any variety but rice. Bella clamped one of her ears shut and tried to stop her brain from clanging. She grimaced as the sensation dulled but left behind bad notes. Head foggy, the Slytherin managed to prop herself up a bit. Her lashes fluttered and she pulled heartily at her power reserves, nearly drained. Faintly, she commanded the Black family magic, promising reassurance to her youngest sister, no doubt awake and now stricken elsewhere in the castle. Abruptly, Bella closed off the bond; it was the least she could do and the glass in her side would keep the connection closed. Her muscles failed and Bellatrix hugged the floor once more, her forehead sticky and stung. Vaguely, she recalled dodging unidentified shrapnel. It must have grazed.

A faint mew sounded from the hallway and the Slytherin cursed the wretched cat. Figures she was thwarted by mange. At least Mrs. Norris brought McGonagall. Filch would have been easier to murder.

Decorum aside, McGonagall pulled the witch to her and wanded the door shut (prudently). The downed witch flopped across the professor’s lap; it was ungainly and awkward, further punctuated by their shortcomings of late. Minerva surveyed Bella’s injuries. _Several dislocated joints._ _Gash on the brow. Glass shrapnel. A nasty shard lodged in the ribcage. Smoking hands, unburnt._ The professor shifted them a bit and checked Bella’s pupil response, frowning when one didn’t react to wand light. She worried as her protégé’s eye remained unfocused.

“Concussed,” Minerva murmured. Triage complete, she worked and no more words passed between them for some time.

Bella lazed, trying to stay awake. A shadow fell across them as cloud cover took the moon. The witch huddled to her mentor, her body automatic and thankful for company. Bellatrix winced as a kind hand swept back her hair, before beginning its wandwork. Practiced, the professor extracted the smaller glass splinters from flesh and cloth. They parted from Bella’s skin and clinked into a pile beside her. It was precise work, slower than McGonagall would have liked. She was careful to avoid the large glass shard, undecided on her course of action for that.

One side done, Minerva tapped the witch’s shoulder. Bellatrix understood and shifted ungainly onto her right, so the professor could attend to her left. The shard lodged in her torso glinted with every breath—and Bella’s shook—exhaustion collecting its toll. A steady hand held hers and Bellatrix accepted the strength of affection. Fighting sleep, she focused on the professor. Minerva’s dark locks were messily plaited and dusted with destruction. McGonagall hadn’t time for her infamous updo, not when the catty sentry had hissed her from the dead of sleep. Bellatrix liked the professor better this way, waist-length braid and slapdash strands dressing Minerva’s shoulders. In the safety of such countenance Bellatrix allowed the embrace for slow seconds. When awareness collected she pulled away, their hands rusting like trust. Minerva lowered her wand; healing spells wouldn’t fair well against a combative patient.

“Don’t. It’s me or Poppy.”

Her protégé stilled, albeit angrily.

Despite recent history, McGonagall cradled the recalcitrant creature, knowing that her care bruised. The professor worried about moving her apprentice again, but Bella needed another run of diagnostics. Minerva looked around for leverage and wanded a half-destroyed desk behind them. Bella’s breath pained as they shifted, but the professor needed the witch propped up. Her student couldn’t manage sitting without support and the desk elevated Bella while McGonagall worked.

The professor assessed Bella’s chin and dirty cheek, her face stern. Bella’s eyes followed her warily as the professor’s wand spelled more diagnostics. Minerva blanched at one in particular — Bella’s residual power levels were off the charts, far past the alleged levels of sustainable core magic. Magic was a fickle substance and bodies could only conduct so much without damage. From Norris’ garbled report, this hadn’t been a short blast but rather a prolonged and controlled effort. Such exposure to raw magic and the Slytherin ought be split like a lobster.

In her youth, Minerva had witnessed the effects of such things. The Global Wizarding War had torn the fabric of the world. It had been a brutal time for wizards and muggles alike, masked by what the latter called World War II. Years later, a horrific image still stuck with the professor: a poor bastard seared in the village town square, his flesh cooked and tendered to the point of sloughing off.

The level of raw magic should have killed her foolhardy student outright, but although Bellatrix was banged up, she was far from expired. The living evidence contradicted all known research. This raised so many questions that no library was large enough to hold that inquiry. The professor took in her desecrated classroom, muttering halves and harrows about magical formulas. She coped as any academic would.

“Your levels are extraordinary,” Minerva said tightly, denial taking her tongue, “but expulsion can’t exceed core-maj potential without—”

“Save your narrow arithmancy,” Bella grumbled, blinking blood out of her lashes. “You excluded several variables. Please though, feel free to debate magiphilosophies while I bleed out like a stuck hippogriff.”

“Concussion hasn’t dulled your pleasantries,” Minerva snapped, but attended to the nasty cut on the witch’s brow. “You’re lucky your bones didn’t snap from the stress. As it is, Poppy will need to check your spine for factures. You’ve managed to exceed your core power and live.”

“O’good,” Bella sluiced, slurs easier than enunciation.

“Hush your face. You’re making it worse.”

McGonagall transfigured a piece of wood into gauze and staunched the wound. It needed mild cleaning before healing, but she couldn’t see the damned cut, for all its red weeping. The professor tried not to interpret the witch’ hands, still smoking from the smolder of magic. The slender digits were undamaged, a small miracle both welcomed and ominous. Where smoke roamed there was always fire. However, far enough from death’s door, McGonagall reverted to normalcy.

“The meaning of this, Miss Black?” the professor demanded evenly, care in her actions but absent in her words. She pressed firmly on Bella’s brow, relieved as the head wound slowed its bleeding.

“No meaning,” Bella rumbled, timpani in her head. She was exhausted, tired by surrealism and the appeal of pain. A clinical pause. “I don’t think ankles are supposed to bend like that,” she said, humored. Bella chortled and leaned into Minerva’s support.

The unordered sound chilled Minerva’s marrow and the professor shivered at the snaring tone. But she couldn’t risk numbing spells, not when the chit was so…

“Forks are useless,” Bella said. “Spoons get all the love.”

…concussed.

“Fuck the damn spoons,” Bellatrix continued hazily. “All I need is a knife.”

Minerva chuckled, despite the gravity. Even addled, her protégé was fiery. Bellatrix babbled more nonsense as Min mended smaller cuts and repositioned several joints, ankles included. Barely a peep from the witch as the professor manhandled a shoulder back into place. McGonagall didn’t dwell on Bella’s high pain tolerance; there wasn’t room for such mansion tonight.

“That makes nine bloody times,” Bellatrix rasped, in too many places at once. “But don’t tell Cissa that seven ate nine.”

The professor ignored her patient, the dark witch concussed and chancy for it. She made game plan instead, eying the glass shard in Bella’s side. Field medicine was all good and well, but Minerva opted to leave the liability alone for now. Without knowing the depth or damage, the shard could present more danger if pulled out. Best to leave it for the mediwitch, rather than risk major blood loss and Poppy’s wrath.

“Hold still,” the professor muttered to Bella. Needing both arms, Minerva propped the witch against her thigh with difficulty.

“Holding,” Bella sighed wistfully, “but your notes are pitchy.”

The symphony continued in Bella’s head and her brow furrowed at Minerva’s cutting gaze, understanding that she wasn’t quite right. The professor worried the witch’s head, distracting the Slytherin as she worked on the concussion. (Madam Pomfrey would have been the better choice, but McGonagall was familiar enough with the technique.) Wryly, Minerva allowed Bella’s addled banter.

“Well, we cannae all be tuned quite like you,” the professor quipped, pleased when the dark witch smirked. Good indication that she’d healed the worst of it. Still, some things magic couldn’t heal completely, concussions being one. The swelling would persist for a bit.

Minerva refocused on the brow gash and lifted the gauze, red and soaked by moonlight. Relieved at the preliminary clotting, the professor cleansed the gash with a controlled and flushing Aguamenti. Her spare wand joined in. Between the two she managed to rein in the bleeding and Episkey the worst of it neatly closed, sparing Bellatrix the scar of this tantrum. The worst of things healed, McGonagall waded out of her thoughts and back to Bella’s murmurs and motives. The Gryffindor hummed her agreement to the madness, placating whatever she could. But the Slytherin was regaining reality, convalescing as the pain lessened. The professor returned her spare wand to its tuck in her robes, needing only one for the rest of this disaster.

“At least pretend that you deign to listen,” Bella rasped, blinking relief as the agony dulled.

Minerva rolled her eyes, deeming it finally safe for a numbing spell. Bellatrix sighed her thanks as it eased her nerves.

“This is worse than when’ye blew up Greenhouse Three,” McGonagall brogued heavily, her chin nodding upwards at their unexpected canopy.

Tentaculas were incredibly flammable around residual magic and Pomona would never forgive either of them for that oversight. Bella’s residual magic often had a sheen to it, but tonight went quite beyond that. The two looked up and eyed the lingering magic; the classroom was shambled but colors lingered, irradiant above their heads. The aurora stretched across the room, drifting comfortably in the castle drafts. Minerva didn’t detect any danger but it was an unnerving sight. She’d never seen such magic except in the Great Hall. Similarly, the professor doubted that it would dissipate given time. Hogwarts had a tendency to collect magical energy and add to its sentience.

“Pretty, isn’t it,” Bella said, her voice a fortress. The high windows spilled in starlight and bred with the incandescent aura.

Distracted by the magic, the professor’s wand lulled. Taking advantage, Bellatrix threw off the gentle embrace and stood abruptly, _mostly_ without sway. The Slytherin had regained some strength and now twirled like blood goddess under the window moon. Horrified, Minerva followed hastily, swiping glass from her knees. An abyss settled behind Bella’s face and the professor knew the madcap witch underestimated her health. The numbing spell only cloaked pain; it didn’t heal injury and her student’s arrogance tempted disaster.

“You’re not well, Bellatrix,” the professor hissed, approaching the Slytherin carefully.

“I’m not crazy.”

“You’re concussed, so sit the fuck down.” McGonagall lost propriety. Quick hands and she managed to hit Bella’s form with a stasis spell, preventing further damage at least. In healthier states, Bellatrix would have been amused at the coarse language.

“Proud of my work, _Pro-fess-or_?” Bellatrix swept an outward arm, presenting her destruction with ornate flourish. The witch stepped towards McGonagall, twirling her wand and provoking whatever she could.

“Dinnae test me, _leanbh_ , you’re in a world of trouble.” The professor pursed her lips, unsure how to dispel the antagonism from her wily charge.

“I know it’s not your brand of optimism, but you must admit my effort was stellar. Go with proud, Minerva.” Bella stumbled over her feet and frowned at the impertinent battlefield, strewn with rubble.

Swearing, Minerva moved toward the injured witch, searching for a stable spot of floor. The grit invaded her night flats, but she found balance. Warily, Min brought them back to facts. She knew the woman was weedy from the magic but at least Bella had left lunacy to the moon.

“Mind yourself, _ghrá_. You’ve obliterated my classroom and are in serious need of medical attention.” Minerva’s temper flared. “Head Girl or not, you’re up a creek. Better hope I’m willing to help you paddle. Never mind detention for the foreseeable future,” the professor surveyed, “this, warrants a board sanction.”

Bella hardened.

“No need, Professor, I’m no longer your student. Check with your beloved headmaster and you’ll find a dozen Outstanding N.E.W.T.s on his ridiculous desk.”

Minerva had no time to be offended at such gall and academic impropriety, and Bellatrix didn’t offer her the kindness of pause.

“Ministry security is weak and _He_ won’t stop at stealing exams.” Regretfully, Bellatrix watched betrayal wash over her mentor. The revered professor would no longer hold her in any sort of esteem. That, Bella made sure of.

It couldn’t be helped.

Emotion raked over McGonagall's face and Bellatrix enjoyed her trembling fury. Minerva had invested seven years, mentoring and fostering talent. Bella’s entrance to Hogwarts had been hellish, her father utterly against the enrollment. But Minerva was not a professor to waste genius, regardless of the package. Despite House rivalry, McGonagall had taken Bellatrix under wing. Apprenticeship bonds were close to holy and Bellatrix was breaking that oath. Still, the Slytherin couldn’t halt a smirk as teaching eyes flickered to her sleeve-clad arm.

“He hasn’t marked me. Not for another fortnight, at least.” A weight lifted off Bella’s chest, to say the words aloud. McGonagall was her confidante, regardless of the new lines drawn. “Nevertheless, the Dark Lord has his ways and I know when he calls.”

With the damned name spoken, their bonhomie froze with a sudden winter. Minerva drew her wand and Bella’s face narrowed—returning the favour—though a half-hearted reciprocity it was.

“Oh, you’re marked alright,” McGonagall spat, stalking Bellatrix closer. “How long?”

Bella knew what she asked and considered her raging mentor. She remained silent, games aside and trading for guilt. Minerva had been crucial in her life, but the treason was unavoidable.

“How long!” McGonagall yelled into the silence, her face hard and angled. “How long have you been his?” Her wand pressed battle to the witch’s throat.

“Since birth,” Bellatrix said truthfully, a lifetime of weariness backing her voice. “If not the Dark Lord, it would have been another. Demons don’t choose the devil.” Salazar how she wished Narcissa were here. For which of them, she wasn’t sure.

The professor’s eyes widened and her wand shook at the witch’s hollow. Black eyes caught on Minerva’s and the silence of understanding ran between them. Bella had been Black since conception, trained and indoctrinated since womb. They _all_ were: gentle Meda and even sun-little Cissa. Nearly royal, the Blacks always aligned with a king and Cygnus had struck an accord with the Dark Lord ages ago. Bella’s burden was visceral and Minerva nearly let it override reason. This was unbearable.

“Bellatrix,” The professor whispered, wand still pressed to Bella’s throat, hand imploring the witch’s shoulder.

Bellatrix was awash with fondness, despite the situation. Knowing Minerva’s emotion, the Slytherin went on. Her words heralded war and it painted her face.

“You know exactly what I am. There’s darkness I can’t overcome, Minerva. You must understand there is no choice.”

The Scot confirmed none of this, her words low and barked. “There is always a choice and yet you ally yourself with Him? He means to murder, Bellatrix, murder! And you and I had tea…yesterday.” Her forehead furrowed, trying to juxtapose those ideas.

The surrealism was heady and the professor’s wand slipped back an inch. Minerva tried to reconcile the hard woman before her with the brilliant student she knew. The Black family was darkened and adhered to the old pure-blood beliefs. Bellatrix had succumbed to that ring, clearly, but to this extremity? Not this bell, not this—

Bellatrix chortled, her own tower. She pulled away from the professor and sighed as glass crumbles sliced into her feet. Her battle stance put the academic on edge and she winced as Bella’s new wounds painted the floor.

“Look about you, Professor!” Bellatrix cried out. “I destruct, I destroy, and it’s revelry in my veins. So forgive me if I’ve no room for reluctance.” Her fury spat at the professor, though nuances had a few notes.

“It’s the glee I take issue with, Bellatrix, not the inclination. I know the things you can’t control.” Minerva’s wand pointed at the witch’s heart and offered the threat of understanding. Her other hand twitched slightly, wanding Bella’s feet whole and transfiguring rubble into boots for her errant apprentice.

They circled each other, their duel stance having been choreographed for the past seven years.

“He’s grooming me for lieutenant, _ghrá_.” Bella mimicked the Scot’s brogue, goading and fond. Her humor didn’t lift the dark.

Professor McGonagall’s lips tightened at Bella’s messy brand of friendship. So she tried another route, having had enough of this manacled rebellion.

“You’re my student and my will supersedes,” the professor reminded and pulled out the legalities. “You aren’t marked and I forbid it. You’re not to speak of this until I’ve wiped every last trace.”

McGonagall’s claim on Bellatrix didn’t outrank familial or property law; regrettably, Bella remained firmly chained to House Black and betrothed to House Lestrange. However, apprenticeships in the wizarding world still carried an academic or proprietary claim. As such, Minerva retained the right to forestall any action that directly threatened vocational secrets or their apprenticeship — for instance, Bella’s idiotic actions or a claim made by another trade master. And all villainy aside, the Dark Lord was a trade master.

“I took the N.E.W.T.s. for good reason, Minerva.” Bellatrix circled the professor, her voice soft and highlighting the oversight. “You wrote that contingency into the contract yourself. You’re looking at a free agent.”

“You have got to be shitting me, Bellatrix,” McGonagall hissed her outrage. “It wasn’t meant to be a loophole, you daft witch, but the gift of a summer holiday.” The N.E.W.T.s. functioned as exit exams, meant to denote graduation and/or to delineate the shift to graduate student status. But paperwork was paperwork, meaning there was a small unintentional hiatus inbetween. No matter, Minerva fought for contingency, her green eyes sharp and thankful for her stint as a solicitor. “Consider yourself served with an injunction. I’ll file in the morning.”

Bellatrix would have been impressed, were she not resigned to protecting her favourite Gryffindor.

“Professor,” the Slytherin said wryly, “I’ll only file a counter claim. No court will uphold an injunction against your own litigation. If it helps, I’m not His either. Not yet.” Bella’s eyes were emphatic and dark. “But you’ve no longer the authority to command me and the Dark Lord has no ground for retaliation. Neither will the Ministry.”

“Bellatrix,” the professor said breathlessly, her eyes wide and understanding the misguided motivation. Contract complete, McGonagall couldn’t be held liable for Bella’s actions any longer. The nuance of that was complex, but Minerva should have predicted.

“You’re as much my kin as I’m yours,” Bellatrix said bluntly, though her face pulled at the subject of chosen family, something she rarely voiced so blatantly. “Or do you treat every student like you do the Black sisters?” Bellatrix wouldn’t hide the raw emotion of that, having absolved their apprenticeship in order to protect her mentor. To leave Narcissa (even Andy) with their beloved professor.

Minerva’s jaw went slack, expecting such idiotic loyalty from a Gryffindor. Her response was less kind.

“Should I thank you for the month reprieve when your soul isn’t dammed by either myself or your murderous master? I’m not stupid enough to think you a pacifist. You can’t join a slaughter house and ask me to look the other way.”

“I ask nothing.” Bellatrix didn’t want discretion.

One look to her protégé’s face and the professor realized Bella’s intentions to be public about all this.

“Black, you’re a goddamn Slytherin. You can’t be serious. The Ministry will hunt you wherever you go.”

“I’ll tell them myself, if you don’t,” Bellatrix sanctioned. She hadn’t decided on that yet, but it was a bargaining chip for now. She stepped forward and leaned into the professor’s wand, her trust an intimate gesture.

“Don’t leave me without recourse,” McGonagall petitioned the witch, her distress austere and haggard.

“Protect me and you’ll be hunted by both sides. Sorry to disappoint, Minerva, but you’re going to live.”

Bella left the Gryffindor with little choice but to report this shift of loyalty, but there was a bone-dug sadness the professor recognized. Minerva appealed to Bella’s sense of skewed mortality, the justified scales that the dark witch had always balanced.

“You’re so much more than _death_. Renounce this alliance and choose life.” Minerva pressed urgently. “You can’t possibly think that there’s another resolution that ends without me calling the Aurors.”

“And yet you haven’t.” Bellatrix murmured, lowering her wand. McGonagall’s allegiance threw her, cozy in ways she’d rather not deal with. Mentor or not, Minerva was her dearest friend.

They stared at each other.

“You leave me to this mess.” The professor's voice lowered, her wand following suit. “What would you have me tell Cissa?” The Gryffindor racked a breath, not wanting another Black as ward. Andromeda was…complicated, but the least vulnerable of the three. However, Narcissa and Bellatrix were inseparable and Minerva pained at the desolation this would bring.

“Do you think I’d leave her to rot?” Bellatrix spat hatefully. “I do nothing without considering her benefit.” There weren’t words enough to express that sentiment.

“Bella,” Minerva started sternly, but the witch ignored her.

“I’d never…” Unexpectedly, Bellatrix stumbled into her mentor.

It was more a shudder than a hug, but Minerva allowed it, letting Bella anguish for a moment. The professor calmed her student—and snuck in a stabilizing spell—as the distance of the past few months disappeared. Bella’s forehead dropped to McGonagall’s shoulder, where her misery collected and sought the comfort of blame. The professor felt the distress in Bella’s vibrations and she let the Slytherin speak distraction.

“Out of respect for you I didn’t harm any of your precious mudbloods tonight. _This_ was the result.” Bella vaguely gestured in their embrace, indicating the pathetic remnants of a classroom. “Tell me I get points for restraint.”

Professor McGonagall bared teeth at the slur, but that was battle. The rest was war.

“350 points from Slytherin for supreme idiocy.” And then glibly, “I’ll give you 10 for avoiding murder.” The professor’s distaste was strong, but she understood how Bella’d arrived at such prejudice. “I know you’re angry, but you can’t possibly punish Andromeda forever.”

“Do not speak her name.” Venom coated Bella’s teeth, and the walls and the starlight shriveled.

Minerva nodded retreat, leaving that deep dark hole for Cissa to broach. McGonagall pulled affection from her gut, delaying the goodbye.

“Stay,” the academic said. “Make Hogwarts your home as Professor Black. I was waiting until tea tomorrow…the board only cleared your appointment this morning. A tenure track even, contingent on your current mastery.” The professor unlatched every door. “Complete your third and the world opens.”

“Done and done,” Bella hissed, the entreaty far too appealing. “My thesis is in your desk, second drawer on the left.” Academia was a glorious thrill, backed by the funds and freedom to create. She let Minerva plead out, if only for the solace of pretend.

“Onto the fourth then. You hold secrets that elude most masters and there are a great many left to learn.” Minerva’s implored her student with great affection and the wonder of their academia. “This is your home. Stay and study.” The witch was dear to her heart and the art of living, a foundry of family that neither had expected.

“You know I can’t,” Bellatrix whispered.

Minerva didn’t know that.

“There’s time yet for the unmarked.” The professor galvanized and renewed her plans. “Let me take you to Albus. To Cissa.” Her green eyes minted hope and unashamedly she played her ace. “You put her at great risk.”

Bellatrix froze every muscle, considering that plea for a half moment. She pulled away, her hand finding Minerva’s. The ghost of first year brightened Bella’s face for seconds. It faded, trounced by adulthood. Bellatrix was firm, soft in tone and anguished in solidity. The decision was not in question.

“You want her safe? Then let me go.” Bella thought of her favourite sister, with some semblance of innocence kept. It painted her resolved. Bellatrix slipped away from her mentor and stepped under the starlight spilling from the high window. There was no hallelujah. She bathed her face there and turned back to Minerva. “It’s not worth debating.” Bella stretched her neck, her body aching. Minerva’s numbing and stasis spells held, but she was so damn tired.

“It’s definitely worth the debate,” McGonagall taught. “Nothing is worth giving up that privilege.”

“ _She_ is, you bloody lion,” Bellatrix snarled. “I’ve more to deal with than your academic ambitions. There’s Black magic to handle and I’m charged with the whole infernal clan.”

“The ends do not justify the means,” Minerva reminded. “I know you’re impatient to be out from Cgynus’ thumb, but this is not the way.” She ventured closer to home than usual, this not a topic Bellatrix liked in the open.

“Yes, well not all of us walk well-lit paths lined with gold,” Bella snapped back, disillusioned with her professor’s naivety. “Some of us are working with shit and coal.”

“Whatever mantle your family has you saddled to, joining the Dark Lord won’t keep you safe.” The professor watched her apprentice stalk the room, the rubbled terrain merely their landscape.

“Manor Noir isn’t safe either,” Bella hissed, morbidly satisfied as Minerva flinched. She wondered if the confirmation was worse than McGonagall’s long years of suspicion. “There’s no place where fate can’t find me. I can’t stay here any longer, lest it follow me home and find you. Find Cissa. Find An—the other one.”

“Hogwarts is safe,” the professor brogued but accidental doubt lined her bout. “It’s your home and no one can take it from you.”

“You think I’m on about safety?” Bella savagely kicked a charred textbook, the force busting the dead words to ash. “Believe me you, Professor, safekeeping isn’t real. It’s what I tell Narcissa so she can sleep, so A—our other sister can bed betrayal.” Bellatrix fingered the air, the feeling of their castle keep an unwelcomed comfort. “Morality doesn’t even factor, only their survival. And yours. If I have to raid the entire world, then so be it.” Bellatrix cocked her chin, her eyes dark matter in the starlight.

Bella’s wayward fealty was a phenomenal gift, but without a compass her apathy spun and Minerva struggled to ground her apprentice once again. There were forces at work that McGonagall didn’t ordain and her frustration peaked. The Blacks kept so many secrets and the Gryffindor was sick of having half the picture. Minerva felt the resolution of panic setting in, wondering if this was the cliff where they finally lost Bellatrix.

“You don’t get to give up on morality because it’s hard, Bella. What legacy do you leave her then?” the academic snarled, protecting Narcissa much as she always had. “Choose it wisely.”

“Choice! You still think this is about choice?” Bella laughed balefully, truly amused by the things Minerva didn’t know.

The professor wasn’t impressed.

“If you trade your life for His cause, you steal life from every victim he touches.” Minerva’s eyes flashed. “He’s nothing but a glorified bully with hate to spread and bodies to stack.”

Bella kept silent. Life was an oven without racks, just heat. Frustrated, McGonagall continued.

“You’ve betrayed your oath as my apprentice…and for what? Murdering innocents in alleyways? Torching families in the snore of night?” Minerva didn’t hide her anger. Her heart gripped and stitched her lungs with iron. “You’re not fit to walk these hallowed halls. Not when they’ve kept you sane and safe, as I have done on many a time.”

Bellatrix welcomed the pain of this, not defending her actions. The professor carried on, digging up the darkest things she could find, the words that would break bones. Vengefully, Minerva opened the shadow box, not finding regret until far too late.

“I kept your secret and buried it with you.” The Gryffindor snarled the coffin of that night. “Is this my reward for loyalty? If so, then you’re certainly not worthy of me or Narcissa.” Minerva steeled, as Bella’s face blanched, her eyes jerking to red with the hit. The professor punched again anyway. “Hogwarts is her guardian within these walls. Despite your family laws, Narcissa is under my protection. If you present danger I’ll keep you from her. Don’t doubt that I’ll find a way.”

The wounding words pierced, sure as arrow shot. Truth should have doubted their veracity, but the damage was already done. And Bellatrix was too tired, too injured, and too terrified to turn her anger down.

Her scream and spark blasted at Minerva, the latter narrowly missing the professor’s shoulder. Min heartily thanked her Quidditch days as she dodged the hex. Bellatrix accosted her with rapid-fire curses and McGonagall snarled at the furious witch (and was damn proud somewhere deep down). Bellatrix reacted as any wounded animal would when cornered and the professor regretted pushing too hard. Her protégé was injured and scared and on a precipice and she— ducked a well-aimed Expulso. The Gryffindor tsked, catching sight of Bella’s bloodied side. Her protégé was ridiculously formidable, even when hurt. Minerva returned fire, heartily thankful that Bella’s blocks were flawless. Weakened, the professor doubted her apprentice had stamina enough for a true duel, not with a full master. But the power Bellatrix managed at forty-percent strength was…terrifying. A lesser witch would have fallen. Minerva swore heartily as fiendfyre backed her into a corner; the trick would be surviving without killing her ward.

Bellatrix wasn’t surprised as the flames fell to dust, harmlessly transfigured into carbon. Her eyes were wide and crimson, her hair wild. Instinctually, Bellatrix went for the kill shot but clarity came back to her mid-attack — Minerva’s stern emeralds steady and weary. Bella horrified and pulled up as much as she could. It screwed up the angle of what would have been a nasty Reducto and hit the stone ledging above their heads. It vanquished the structure easily, sending a fine mist of ash over their heads. Through the explosion of dust, Bellatrix called a great deal of the magic back to her—a last ditch effort on the Slytherin’s part—even knowing the danger. The timing would be important and Bella held off the reabsorption for a few more seconds.

A chunk of wall collapsed.

Swearing, the professor tackled her student sideways as the section crashed to the floor, missing them by centimeters. Things fell silent. Nothing but heavy breaths in Minerva’s arms and the professor didn’t understand how they’d managed to land with Bella on her good side. The glass shard hadn’t dislodged, nor had it dug in deeper.

“Professor,” Bellatrix snapped and pushed McGonagall backwards, not unkindly.

Minerva alarmed at Bella’s tone, recognizing the familiar warning. She could feel Bella’s magic homing in and the Gryffindor scrambled to her feet, prepared, hoping that it wouldn’t result in lava this time around. Her apprentice wasn’t learned enough yet, to pull back spells without severe repercussion. Had it not been so awful, the sight would have been beautiful...shades of indigo and jam twirling, shooting through Bellatrix like comets. The professor was helpless as Bella’s core magic hotwired control and directed the forces inward. The dark witch shrieked, her every election jumping and radiating power. Unchecked magic wasn’t meant to implode and Minerva watched the undoing with horror. She prayed Bellatrix would figure out how to expel it and sure enough, the magic surged outward, lightning striking in random directions. Minerva ducked as a bolt shot overhead, singeing her braid and drying her tears. She’d caused this, she knew, threatening the best solace Bellatrix owned.

Minerva felt as unforgivable as her apprentice.

The course eventually ran through, leaving Bella crouched to the floor, her hands wild and sparking. The professor approached cautiously, offering her presence as truce. Bellatrix looked at her, eyes emptied, but she took the hand up and angrily embraced the witch. They were breaking things all over the place and Bella broke another. Minerva didn’t blame her, merely welcomed the wrath and soothed Bellatrix with hums and hands.

“Speak of that night again and I’ll hurt you. Speak of it to Cissa and I’ll kill you.” Some things needed to stay buried. “Keep her from me and I swear you a world of pain that never leaves your skin.” Bella’s rage softened, as the professor whispered extraction spells and Episkeys over them both. Bella wanted to scream with relief. “Please don’t make me foe anymore tonight, Minerva. I’m just as fierce a friend.” Her words rasped, voice too tired for further argument.

Bella shook, the residual magic doing nothing good for her already depleted health. Twice in one night was incredibly idiotic, even for her. Her heart pounded, impaled though its beat. Feeling weak, Bellatrix pushed away from her master and grasped the stone wall behind them, needing purchase. She’d meant to leave, she really had, but Minerva couldn’t let it go. Blood seeped sluggishly through her robe where the embedded glass still lodged. They were at a standstill, sharing the same space but galaxies apart. The professor’s expression resembled the best of horror and heartbreak. Bellatrix teared and brushed the water angrily, streaking dust across her face like paint. She owed her mentor enlightenment, even if they parted as enemies, but by Helga she needed to offset this heart-tear. Blood and explanations would suffice and her hands reached for her side.

Minerva was alarmed.

“Are you barmy? Leave it b—“

Fiercely, Bella pulled out the glass shard and enjoyed agony as it ripped her through. Her lip trembled and her hands smeared with red. Before Minerva could stop the stupidity, Bellatrix raked the shard over-top her breast, across the heart. Her torturous yell let loose, scaling the walls. Minerva would think her out of mind, but there was method to Bella’s madness. Without thought the professor rushed her charge, catching the witch mid-collapse. Her frenzied hands went to Bella’s chest and side, the dark blood running through her fingers. Bellatrix welcomed the pretty ache and grayed out. Her legs buckled and Minerva lowered her to the floor, her knees finding gravity but certainly not progress. Here they were again. McGonagall struggled to curtail the flow, frantic undertones in her hands and spell.

“ _Vulnera Sanentur_. _Vulnera Sanentur_. _Vulnera Sanentur_.” The blood began to staunch, weak trickles persisting. “You were supposed to wait for Poppy. You were supposed to teach. Supposed to—” the professor said hoarsely. “Why in Godr—”

“Why why why.” Bella whispered, her hand grasping the witch’s wrist.

Professor McGonagall startled, astonished that her surprise patient retained consciousness. She winced at the foretelling tone, having heard it on many an occasion, when Bella wanted to speak of horrors she couldn’t tell. The die was cast, but their quarrel suspended for the time being as Minerva leaned in to hear, fearing everything. Bella’s voice cracked, but her message was clear and caustic.

“Loyalty,” Bellatrix whispered oddly. “I need no reminder of my worthiness, I promise you." She let Minerva’s earlier words come back for a haunt.

Minerva paled with terrible presentiment — the expression on Bella’s face promised bad secrets. Bellatrix paid no heed and continued rasping truth.

“My father has covered that since childhood, raping decorum into me repeatedly.” Bellatrix rushed this out, glad for the secret no longer. She and her sisters were adults, but Minerva was the adult of their world. And now she’d finally told. “Happy now? Is it really _better_ now that you know?”

Horrified and suddenly understanding too much, the professor kept Bella close. She raged at the confession and thought of Bella all these years, alone with it. Her thoughts were wretched, knowing it was nothing compared to Bella’s lifetime of—Godric—horror houses. Minerva’s chest constricted and guillotined whatever words she might have toned. Sighing shakily, she merely rocked the witch, Bella’s blood covering them both. The professor ran a million conversations back through her head, a different cast on them all.

“You’re never _alone_ with this again,” the professor said, protecting her cub. “I’m here. Dae ye ken, do you hear me?”

“Minerva, I haven’t been alone since coming to Hogwarts. You’re here. She’s here. They both are.” Bella said quietly, for strength and explanation. “And now all of you know.”

At that, the professor held in a raging croon. Godric, her three witches in that house and the professor was proved right, all her years of hating Cygnus Black. How she hadn’t wanted vindication this way, not at the expense of her apprentice and her sisters. What had Cygnus done, oh what had he done.

Bellatrix felt Minerva’s panic and restraint and she squeezed the professor’s hand, imparting them tethered.

“I incur the…worst of his wrath,” she told her mentor, “I’m skilled at it. You would do the same, with two younger sisters in the house.” Idly, Bella fingered the professor’s messy hair, black ash not obscuring such comfort. Minerva’s plait was touchstone and Bellatrix couldn’t bear to lose that.

Silence loaded and anguish dropped from green eyes onto wild curls. The scent of pine and iron filled the air. The professor spelling another Episkey, healing what she could. The past few months felt senseless and all the years made more sense.

And less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review, dears. There's more to come soon. 
> 
> Credits: Alanis Morissette – Ironic, Panic! At the Disco – I Write Sins Not Tragedies, Sarah McLachlan – Angel


	2. February 1970 – Asides on the Side I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, how I love that time isn't linear.

_February 1970. Context and other considerations._

In retrospect, the incident in classroom 1B was inevitable. But like most surprises, hindsight reveals that we are terrible observers and poor listeners.

To situate, let’s rewind a bit and consider the greater context of February and March 1970. The wizarding world was on edge as the Dark Lord roiled power. What began as a political movement had mutated into a darker extremism. By the time the Ministry connected the dots, the disappearances had been going on for at least two years and the first murders (they knew of) tracked back to the spring of ‘69. The people were fearful and their restless energy carried over to Hogwarts. The professors did what they could to shield the students from the horrors of the world, but terror had a way of creeping in.

Ministry governance was effectively stalled, polarized by the major factions. Pure-bloods clashed with the liberals and tensions were heightened between Slytherin and Gryffindor house. The Hufflepuffs retained their kindness, but a waxy distrust formed over their motions. The Ravenclaws took to equivocation, not keen on drawing sand lines before they knew which castles were building.

Dumbledore kept Hogwarts warm and whimsical but the faculty was watchful, feeding into the overall paranoia and waiting for cauldron to drop. Minerva, Pomona, and Poppy held the staff steady. The witches were formidable as ever but no more than usual. If Albus ever questioned who to groom as his second, Minerva answered it for him. Flitwick was still a contender, but not really. There were other factors to consider.

Other politics to render.

Albus kept an eye on his former protégé. He was pleased that Tabby had found kinfolk, but he knew the dangers that engendered. The Black sisters were fated players and he preferred Bellatrix under Minerva’s watchful eye, rather than under thumb of father. He and Bellatrix had the occasional conversation, but Albus left the majority of her schooling up to McGonagall. Dumbledore was nostalgic for teaching sometimes, but there was a solace in playing headmaster, much like chess. He would let this play out, until all the parts had been cast. Minerva had always handled stress well, even if the volatile Miss Black was less work and more family. But like many older students, Bellatrix’s energy had changed this year, drawn like the current political climate. There were insidious factors at work and he knew her role would be clarified and exorable in the years to come.

She’d withdrawn lately and Minerva worried.

A rash of incidents overtook the castle in early 1970, more touched than the typical student villainy. Bellatrix wasn’t the only culprit, but the Head Girl was an expert sneak and it put McGonagall in a precarious situation. The professor considered herself above gossip and held no stock in rumors, but Bella’s legendary prowess in seduction and dueling had not escaped her ear all these years.

Though exactly _what_ she believed, Minerva wasn’t clear anymore. Bellatrix remained frequently kind and cruel. Through the years McGonagall watched the eager witchling seal into the fortress of a woman. The professor was privy to some soul beyond the shallows, but a glimpse is only a glimpse. As far as she could tell, her prodigy was running fast. From what, Minerva could only postulate wildly.

Their relationship was complicated.

Bellatrix was a wealth of talent. In her second year, at Albus’ urging, Minerva began training the witch individually, instilling a solid foundation in advanced Transfiguration theory. Originally the professor thought it a solution to curb Bella’s boredom in class. That year was pure tutelage and Minerva relished the challenge brought on by Bella’s keen intellect. Trust slowly formed between them and there hadn’t been another individual so well suited for Minerva's art since, well, herself.

In Bella’s third year McGonagall took Miss Black on as her formal apprentice, in addition to Gryffindor House duties. Minerva was busy but the mechanism was homey to her: academia in its overworked splendor. It was no surprise that Professor McGonagall favoured Bellatrix, though Minerva scoffed at Albus’ knowing twinkle. Apprenticeships were not unheard of but they were rather rare in practice. At Hogwarts, the last incidence was Minerva’s training with Dumbledore; her loyalty to the wizard well known. Apprenticeships signified an immense trust between master and student. By virtue of the academic relationship, it required a fragile intimacy.

Childfree and with little family, Minerva thought Bella a legacy she might nourish and leave behind on a far off day; the satisfaction of a life well lived and a profession well taught. Bellatrix was a fervent student, both driven and hardworking. Together they explored the depths of Transfiguration as only a master and apprentice could. For a time they were seamless. But as the black in Bella grew, so did the cracks. As eager as she was to learn, Bellatrix was as eager to conceal.

Minerva was a scant confidante to the ever-elusive Miss Black, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. Bellatrix was a reticent witch, preferring the privacy of her own demons. The professor reluctantly accepted this, along with Bella’s queer precociousness. The years marched on and Bellatrix took to adulthood with a wild carefulness, rash and pretty. There was a caffeination to Bella’s existence and she percolated the grounds of Hogwarts, brewing careful cups.

Starved for possibility, Bellatrix ate up their lessons with a wide-eyed appreciation that Minerva had thought lost. Soft to the wonders of their art, yes, but Bella was harsh with the world. The professor knew Bella’s capacity for greatness but worried about the spectrum of it. All things equal then, mentorship was the difference Minerva could make. Bella was to be Black but best she not be alone. If McGonagall had regrets later in life it wasn’t training Bellatrix. It wasn’t their trying and wonderful friendship.

It was the damned and unjust world.

Despite clear sanction from Dumbledore, Hogwarts was unsettled by their academia. Gryffindor and its allies scoffed at the atypical cross-House mentorship. As for Slytherin’s loyalty, they knew better than to cross their fellow snake, having learned this lesson and learned it well back in the fall of 1966. In Bella’s fourth year at Hogwarts, a thickheaded housemate publically intimated that Minerva was a “frigid old hag who couldn’t get a proper shag unless she paid for it.”

Bella’s reaction was swift and satisfyingly over the top.

* * *

_Brilliant magic filled the corridor and blasted Dav Harvey into the stone wall. Minerva winced at the crack of his body on the slate, accidental magic or not. Relieved that he wasn’t dead, dying, or injured, the professor doled out a week’s detention to the fatuous wizard. But despite her cool professionalism, his words dug. Distracted, McGonagall didn’t admonish Bella’s inability to contain herself. The professor turned on heel and offed to her office, Bellatrix on her six. As usual, the professor commenced their evening lesson, and as usual, her student excelled. Minerva assumed the incident forgotten._

_“Those who think you frigid know nothing of cold,” Bella said during a lull, a black scowl on her face._

_Caught unawares, Minerva tripped her jawline tight, her eyes wide at her apprentice. SHEBANG and the professor’s favourite lamp exploded. McGonagall spent the next week teaching Bella to channel, so that the witch wouldn’t tamper the world with emotional magic._

_If only similar methods could have soothed the rest of Slytherin._

_The snake pit was not McGonagall’s cup of tea, despite her fondness for Bellatrix. Gryffindors were prone to ridiculum, but Slytherin wiles were something else. Slughorn was on a short furlough somewhere in the godforsaken jungle, leaving Minerva as temporary Head of House. He was a sycophant but well liked by his snakes and kept them in line or at least under the radar. While away, Sprout and Kettleburn covered Slughorn’s lower-level classes, while Poppy covered his advanced curriculum. Thanks to Dumbledore’s finite wisdom, McGonagall was made temporary Head of Slytherin. She had double duty in month of February, tasked with the snake pit in addition to her lion’s den — and the thrill of tracking their every whim and welfare._

_The feuding houses took advantage and ran them all a bit ragged._

_Minerva snapped at Albus during the faculty meeting, commenting that a zookeeper would have done them better. Quidditch and Potion injuries were to be expected, along with the usual amount of love potions gone wrong. But then Lully McDragen managed to shrink her nose in an ill-advised attempt to conceal acne. Madam Pomfrey had been forced to involve St. Mungo’s in order to reconstruct Lully’s sinus cavities and the press had a field day. Then, Salazar knows how, but Steven Stevens accidentally drank elf milk and required around-the-clock care for his sudden ear situation. That would have been fine, until they realized that he was contagious. All in all, the month had been trying and Minerva was ardently looking forward to Slughorn’s return._

_So in the meantime, Dav Harvey’s fate was a bright karmic spot, albeit based in schadenfreude._

_Riddled with embarrassment, Harvey had finally sought out Madam Pomfrey, a week after Bella’s retribution. His genitals kept bursting into green flames at recurring intervals. Although harmless, the magical flames burnt itchy-hot at the chime of the hour. Every hour. Min couldn’t help her wry satisfaction but Bellatrix was positively gleeful. It was never proven that Bella had hexed her foolish housemate, but Minerva held her happy suspicions. Bella’s cattish smirk being one factor, her mastery of concealment charms the week prior, yet another. But Hogwarts took Dav as clear example. After that, Slytherin left Bellatrix and her odd choice of mentor well enough alone._

_And so was 1966._

* * *

But this was 1970.

The philosophy of natural consequences wasn’t nearly so black and white, and Bellatrix wasn’t above or below honor. And the world was far darker than school corridors. So yes. May 1970 proved to be a dark time, filled with steady umbers and unsteady alliances.

Things came to a head in May. But March, well, March came first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review, my dears.
> 
> Credit: Billy Joel – She’s Always a Woman to Me


	3. March 1970 – Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone told me once that consensual sex is just another thing we do, that sexuality is only a behavior performed, no more or less than any other. I wholeheartedly disagree with that type of rigidity; sexuality exists regardless of whether the act of sex occurs or not. Sexuality and sex, apart and together, are one of the few magicks humans can cast, a profound statement between lovers (or with one's self). 
> 
> As such, if socialization of sex and/or sexuality is lacking (or skewed) I wondered how that might that play out in the context of trauma. Fear not, Cissatrix is unequivocally the pairing on main and there is no doubt they belong to each other; and goodness, what a sweet and slow burn. But alas, set-up is important and you all know I adore complex world-building and complicated relationships. And Minerva is a fascinating mentor.

_March 1970. Two months before the blow-up in classroom 1B._

Minerva and her apprentice were tight-knit, this year in particular. The professor chalked it up to similar interests and Bella’s approaching graduation.

Their age-gap was closing.

Having weathered twenty-five harsh winters, Bellatrix was not so far from Minerva’s thirty-seven years. In the grand scheme of a magical lifespan, they were still neophytes. Her apprentice had a dark charisma that pulled everyone in and, though an accomplished witch, Professor McGonagall was not immune to charm. Minerva accepted this quirk, much as she had Bella’s penchant for pudding.

There’d always been banter and nuance in their make-up. When it came to Minerva, Bella carried a complex heart. But complex matters like to complicate and so came their zenith. Later on, Minerva wondered how she’d missed the danger. One moment she’d been behind her apprentice, teaching an intricate spell. The next, and everything changed entirely.

Bella’s timetable was intense this year: in her seventh, she had a full course load and Head Girl duties in addition to her apprenticeship with Minerva. The professor was a stickler and required a thesis for each mastery level. Bella was in the middle of her third.

They had a lovely evening schedule.

Mondays and Wednesdays were devoted to theory, with Tuesdays dedicated to Bella’s solitary research. Thursdays were meant for overflow work or, on occasion, a night off. Indulgent of youth, McGonagall didn’t overbook Bella’s weekends. She always gave Bella Saturdays off, fond of the witch’s need for solitude or sister-time. Every other Sunday they used the DADA classroom for larger casting needs. She’d argued against the timing, but Bellatrix had been insistent.

Fridays were for practicals. Today was Friday.

McGonagall admonished the witch for donning corsets during these times. But so constant was Bella’s attire that the professor doubted it caused much hindrance anymore. Still, breathing was important; misalign a breath and bad things happened. That was how Pompeii fell in a day. Granted, their target was a table. Not a fucking mountain.

“Stop hovering, Min. I’ve got the damn wanding,” Bella exasperated. “Practice with Flitwick was enough prep to last a lifetime.” On Minerva’s orders she’d been relegated to the choir, given that conducting and spellwork weren’t far off. “The altos need work.”

“ _Professor_ Flitwick,” McGonagall chastised and then critiqued Bella’s stance. “Think sapling, not tree. You’ve got nothing if you don’t keep those shoulders down and loose.”

“I’ve got looks and my pretty face,” Bellatrix deadpanned, enjoying Minerva’s eye-roll.

“Hush and pay attention. Lest you tip over from the kickback.”

“My stance is perfectly stable,” Bella hissed.

“For a Quidditch player,” Minerva muttered.

They’d been circling variants of the same argument for at least a quarter candlemark. Bellatrix sighed and spun the ebony squand. She moped some more, sore at having to use the neutered wand.

“Haven’t used these buggers since second year.” De-cored wands were used in the lower school, to cut down on mayhem.

“Stop sulking and witch-up,” Minerva snapped. “This isn’t meant to be a time-out, Seventh-year or not, Bellatrix, you’re never too good to go back to basics.”

* * *

_Most students completed years one through seven, graduating from Hogwarts with their baccalaureate levels. Additionally, apprentices were required to complete their first mastery level prior to graduation. Undergraduate apprenticeships ended at graduation. These students could go on to secure opportunity in the wizarding world, but most signed on for a subsequent graduate apprenticeship, in order to compete subsequent mastery levels._

_Second-level masters were eligible for a junior professorship at Hogwarts or other magic schools. Other disciplines were more forgiving, but Transfiguration was a fickle craft. Most Transfiguration apprentices, even the talented ones, hit a wall after their second-level mastery. The higher levels required an organic approach, one not suited to most wizards. As such, many third-level masters stopped their progression and instead turned to lucrative spell development for the private sector. The Ministry was fond of using these folks as independent contractors._

_Fourth- and fifth-levels had the luxury of increased career mobility but often served on the Transfiguration council in some capacity. Sixth-level masters were incredibly few and far between. These magi were heavily sought after by the International Confederation of Wizards._

_Professor Minerva was a rare gem, a seventh-level master, one of five living. Obscenely young to have achieved this, she started in the private sector, cross-spelling Transfiguration with other disciplines for the highest bidder. It had been challenging and uneasy work. She’d abandoned this path, when one of her spells unintentionally ended up in the hands of the KGB. Distressed, she’d shown up for tea in Albus’ office. He’d been patient with wisdom and whisky, offering her a teaching post. Ultimately, Hogwarts was her home and always would be._

_Minerva started as the interim Charms professor while Filius was on sabbatical. Upon Flitwick’s return, Albus appointed Tabby to his own Transfiguration duties; there was no better candidate than Minerva and i_ _t was time for him to take a step back from teaching. Dumbledore wasn't nearly old or needing retirement, but being headmaster certainly wasn't a stress-free feat._

_And there were many stressors yet to come._

_Minerva’s return to academia was a bone of contention for Minister Jenkins. Eugenia had been unable to persuade either McGonagall or Dumbledore to join the Confederation, and the British Ministry was keen to have strings in the international community, or rather Jenkins was. Regarding the matter, Dumbledore was infinitely amused that his apprentice followed his contrary footsteps. Neither of them had sights set on politics nor felt the need to cater to the Ministry; Hogwarts was the ideal refuge. At times, Minerva missed the perks that came with the private sector, but at the end of the day teaching let her sleep. Her dreams satisfied at good deeds done and the royalties from her most successful spells kept her pocket cushy. From time to time she took on consultant work, primarily for philanthropic causes (and thus cut her fee by half)._

_Despite McGonagall’s renown, the Ministry assumed she would be malleable to their political agenda. Minerva’s youth hadn’t been a deterrent, unfortunately, merely a notoriety that had engendered ridiculum. Hastily, Jenkins reassessed her approach after Minerva’s very colorful rejection during an annual fundraiser. Safe to say, the Ministry learned not to announce Confederation appointments without the appointee’s consent. The Daily Prophet applauded McGonagall’s rebellion and Minerva hadn’t had an anonymous day since._

_In Bellatrix, McGonagall saw the opportunity to foster kindred spirit, much as Dumbledore had with her. Academia wasn’t a job like others. It was a calling and it lived in her soul, but unlike Bellatrix, Minerva understood the value of humility._

_And basics._

* * *

“The finch homing your window has the basics at this point,” Bellatrix sassed, mooding for conflict. The weather agreed and the drizzle of the evening traded for night rain.

The professor was patiently brusque, recalling the arrogance of her own youth.

“You may be a second-level master, but you’re only halfway through your third. Don’t get cocky, deary,” Minerva said fondly. “You’re a novice in the woods, with many miles left to reap.” But pride coated her voice. Her student was the youngest bi-master this side of the world. At this rate, Bellatrix would finish her third by summer and be poised to start her fourth in the fall. Not that she would tell the witch that.

“Your woods don’t scare me.” Bella’s stance shifted as she turned and snarked this at Minerva behind her.

“Such ego and rile,” the professor sighed, resolutely prompting her apprentice’s arms back into place. “About time you hit something that requires more than a cursory read and a day’s practice. Or is the great Bellatrix Black frightened of arduous work?” They’d been at this a half-hour and her protégé was losing patience, given that they’d also been at this all week.

But some things came with time, like the wisdom of repetition.

It wasn’t Minerva’s fault that most aspects of their field came easy to Bella. It’s not that Bellatrix didn’t have to work, but her intuitive style of magic lent exceedingly well to the craft. It also spoiled the witch when they ran into hurdles. Still, Bellatrix was a quick study and her core magic was unwavering, able to withstand immense amounts of stress and injury. Defensive magic was one thing, but Slytherin’s offensive ability set her apart from her peers. Given her years, Bella’s casting strength was unheard of and put her nearly on par with Minerva, strength-wise (albeit not in experience). Her protégé excelled in unpredictable situations and had an uncanny intuition for adaptive spellwork, organic dueling, and wandless magic. Although highly skilled in emergent situations, Bellatrix had less patience and skill with inanimate objects. This amused Minerva to no end, considering that _animate_ objects were far more difficult to manage. Yet Bella managed those with ease. At least inanimate manipulation could be taught, if only McGonagall could get the witch to sit still long enough.

Bellatrix was exhausted, her mock casts less and less controlled as their session went on. It was a valuable lesson in endurance, but Bella resented education in this particular moment. Her arms hurt and her magical stores were running on empty. They’d done speed drills earlier (with her actual wand) and Bellatrix regretted her request to double up on this evening’s lesson. Rather than admit weakness, the Slytherin preferred temping dragons. Minerva hadn’t responded in her favour, so Bella poked.

“If you’re hoping for fear, don’t let the waiting kill you.”

The professor snorted, knowing her apprentice was tired. Minerva wouldn’t have it. Discipline went a long way when exhausted. She would impart this ethic, even if already three hours into their lesson. The professor sent a pointed kick to the chit’s boots. Reluctantly, the Slytherin huffed, but took up the correct stance once again.

“Fear isn’t the aim, Bellatrix. Wisdom comes from respecting the unknown.”

“You have enough wisdom for the both of us, Professor,” Bellatrix smirked. “I’d rather command the fear.”

Minerva sighed, glad the witch was staying on for at least another two years after graduation. Teaching the youth out of youth was a bittersweet and taxing task. A graduate apprenticeship would do the Slytherin well.

“Concentrate, _ghrá_ ,” Minerva brogued, “and count the furniture scared.” She advised, “Don’t make me requisition the headmaster for another desk. I’ve grown rather fond of this one.”

Amused, Bella conceded this, unsure why they continued to practice in the professor’s office. She suspected that Minerva liked sporadic redecoration. Bellatrix said as much, not surprised when McGonagall ignored her.  
  
“Come now,” Minerva prodded, miming the witch into motion. “Once more with feeling. Diag-up-swish, reverse. Right-left, up-down, flick.” Her apprentice had the motions down with her dominant-hand, but the timing was a hair off.

Bella scowled but complied.

“Once more.” Ah, there it was. Minerva ruffled the woman’s mane, chuckling.

“Look at that. Flawless work, dear.”

“Give me my damn wand,” Bellatrix grumbled, pleased. Her patience was sore and mired.

“Not a chance. Same drill on the left.”

Bella mocked through the spell again, tortured by Minerva’s love for ambidexterity — the professor was annoyingly thorough. After two-dozen runs, her last was the closest. Despite the tediousness, Bellatrix felt the change as muscle memory kicked in.

“You’re nearly there, but hold for a half-breath more and _then_ flick. Flick too soon and we’ll end up standing in goo.” The professor’s mouth quirked. “And we’ll want to avoid gelatin this time.” Molecular spells were finicky about timing. Professor McGonagall guided Bella through the movement again, eying the tension in her apprentice’s back. “Mind those shoulders,” she said gently for the umpteenth time and corrected the issue.

“Yes, yes. Shoulders.” Bella cracked her neck. “Lord envy those who have none.” She hesitated and glared at the candy tin on the table. Glared at the stupid squand.

The eventual goal was to liquefy the table for a split-second and immediately return it to solidity. Bella had practiced for half a week, with various objects in varying locations—with variable results of mild disaster—before McGonagall forbid her from further attempts until their Friday night lesson. Hence the squand tonight. Put out, Bellatrix narrowed her eyes again at Minerva’s table. The spell, when properly executed, would cause the candy tin to sink into the liquid and then seal in the re-solidified wood, much like a bug caught in ice. Only this was wood, not water. Liquid wood was a magical manufaction because it didn’t exist in nature. Worse, it was deceased plant matter and cellular mediums presented all sorts of nuance and trouble. It required the caster to adjust mid-spell, guided only by the cellular reaction to temporal magic. Mastery spells weren’t new to Bellatrix, but third levels were rather volatile. She suspected Minerva hadn’t bothered to run their full curriculum by Dumbledore, let alone the board…considering that third-level Transfiguration had national security implications.

Bellatrix sighed.

Kindly, the professor moved closer and critiqued Bella’s stance. Again. The witch had a tendency to ride her spells high.

“Arms down. Keep those elbows loose. And for sanity’s sake, tuck in. You’re lucky you’re not training for the ballet.”

Firmly charmed by her protégé’s annoyance, the professor squared Bella’s hips to her feet and double-checked the rest of Bella’s carriage. Minerva’s long plait brushed Bella’s waist as she fussed, correcting here and there. The Gryffindor had taken out her hairpins, favouring casual comfort over professional coiffure. Bellatrix shifted, her academic brain fresh and churning with some new question. The professor’s eyebrow rose with expectation and waited. Bellatrix scowled back at her, eyes fond with tension.

It wasn’t clear _which_ of them moved first, but then their mouths were upon each other, drawing speed and locked in a frustrated kiss. Startled, Professor McGonagall hadn’t the presence of mind to end it. Not as Bella cupped her face like midnight fog and bonfire. The smolder pulled at Minerva, along with that infuriating chuckle. And so the professor enjoyed occupying that damn mouth, which never shut up.

A series of moments.

Helga help her, but Minerva was stirred. And then Bellatrix was on the desk, her black curls spilt like ink. Her fingertips sunk into the professor’s shoulder, her hand anchoring Minerva’s braid around her palm. Breath rushed the professor’s cheek as a hitch let loose from Bella’s throat. The professor pulled back and their faces touched again. Again. Oh again.

“Minerva,” Bellatrix murmured.

This sobered the professor and she wrenched her lips away, condemning the situation immediately. Amused, Bellatrix fingered Minerva’s bottom lip, her face wide and smirking. The professor abhorred herself and untangled their limbs, backing away and putting much needed space between. This was so beyond the realm of acceptability and Minerva feared she’d taken advantage. Bellatrix hopped off the desk and closed the distance. She eyed her mentor thoughtfully, her curiosity abundant. Admonishment from the Slytherin dungeons clotted her blood, but Bellatrix ignored the magicked warning. The worry. Albeit, most fondly.

“Far from frigid,” Bella murmured, too close to Minerva’s neck.

The professor hissed at the vibration and all but threw Bellatrix off her.

“Miss Black,” she said, hair mussed and furious. “I’m not interested.”

Bella raised an eyebrow back, charmed by the belated warning.

“Since when do you keep to formality?” The Slytherin approached again. “But do preserve what makes you feel better.”

Bellatrix didn’t understand hiding lust, but knew others felt the need. Something about lust only working with love. A flash of tenderness struck her heart and it beat wildly for another. Minerva huffed ambiguously and palmed Bella’s jaw-line, those angles particular to her protégé. Her charge was often wayward and this seemed much the same. The professor meant to dispel this path but base magic cooked the air thick, heavy like the opium dens in Knockturn. The encounter was raw and so goddamn far from romance or lust. It was educational; not that she could have explained that adequately to anyone other than Bellatrix or Albus.

Art and disaster.

Faintly, McGonagall regretted that she had little skill for pastel work. Their lips hovered and the professor wondered what hell Bella was working through with…this. Powerful coven spells often resulted in sex magic, but this was more a tutorial that pined for escape. Helga knows, Hogwarts was keenly familiar with Bella’s penchant for flesh and frolic.

The professor met Bella’s mouth like mentor and her apprentice welcomed the prudent wall. There was artistry but mostly safety in the exchange as they ribboned back the damn ocean. Somewhere on the sea of that, Prometheus cried out for his liver and Perseus draped a maiden with marital chains. The magic tasted dark and damp, and the professor understood the sudden images as plight. She touched Bella’s cheek, assuring trust and understanding that this wasn’t heat. This was black water, greedy with waves and oily in wake. McGonagall tried to provide her apprentice a vessel, but she was unfamiliar with this particular coping magic. Instructing, the professor distanced them from any illusion of romance. Bellatrix had her seductions but Minerva had the asset of insight and height. Still, they pressed together in the room, soft scholastic sighs and ambiguous murmurs. Inbetween, McGonagall took to whispering safeties. Bella was fond of mouthing Minerva’s name, her prayer for oblivion or a benediction for comfort.

The oil lamps burned low in their sconces, highlighted every curve—every dent—and withholding nothing. Certainly not Bella’s painful psyche or beauty. She drove Hogwarts half mad, especially those who tried to posses her to no avail. It was the psyche that undid Minerva, she supposed. Many a time their wits had collided in fierce debate or shared a private sentiment. Their mouths replicated this and it felt like their discussions over tea and biscuits, a pedagogy that pensioned into touch.

Bellatrix wondered how her intended—no doubt plotting in the dungeons below—would receive this. A light pulse soothed her cheek and smelled of parchment hours. She took that for weighted understanding. For love and all things lavender. The grey things in life.

Bellatrix felt guilty for several things.

She shivered and pressed closer to her mentor, seeking absolution. The embrace felt like their arguments and spellwork. Like the time the professor caught Bella spelling her oatmeal into whisky. Like McGonagall’s unstated fondness for Cissa in winter. Like the smell of books and wee-hour existentialism. As the world pressed her down, Bella held her mentor’s hand like lost traveler. She sorely missed her beloved elsewhere in the castle, but had hoped to leave their troubled world behind for a time. Hoped to punish herself. She sighed some sort of demon and Minerva felt the shift.

This was coping. This was care. Bellatrix huddled into Minerva’s frame, her curls everywhere-all-over. The professor held her student close, soothing the small of Bella’s back. McGonagall pulled away, trying to bring them normalcy or the chance to speak. Her protégé would have none of it, finding escape on Minerva’s throat and seeking purchase in her plaited hair. Minerva hissed out nature as the night rendered offbeat anxieties upon her.

 _‘This is a most dangerous affair,’_ the professor concluded and she tangled between self-deprecation and conceit.

In the recesses of Bella’s mind, a frantic admonishment beat and burnt like caution. It pinched worry and pleasure. Protection. Lust. Bella’s veins purred at the sensation, promising future things to that treasured soul, explaining them in that space where flesh and ether meet. She satisfied when her heart pattered with her beloved’s beat, so shy and curious. Wild like her favourite dell. Bellatrix lost herself—lost the when and where she was—all too happy to distract herself with this odd and skewed intimacy. She wanted her other half here to witness such mastery. So she tongued and taunted the surrogate. Apologized and hoped to capsize. Strung up by emotion and suppression, her body hummed, her flesh unable to sit still. She’d put her beloved through enough, but enjoyed wrenching infidelity upon them both. Their brand of loyalty was beyond flesh; it was born in the bone.

Minerva felt Bella’s trembles and recognized them for what they were not. This was Bellatrix running to shelter, a sublime sublimation. Shock now mastered, reason returned to the professor. Their friendship was real but Bella’s execution of such was often distorted (tonight, case in point). Sins had already signed but Minerva could guide. A final second she allowed, before kissing the damn witch done and off ledge. The Slytherin tasted of dusk and all the things Minerva had never wanted for the woman. The Scot taught into those troubled lips, whispering her concern and support.

“Stop, _ghrá_. Helga help us and stop.”

Bellatrix froze her action cold, understanding their position too saliently. She hadn’t meant to…but she had. Stiffened, she was unsure of the boundaries in their sudden reality. Her mentor was lovely and Bellatrix hated her inability to express such sentiment appropriately. She kept with the things she knew; seduction was a friend, an enemy.

“Miss Black,” the professor said gently. “This is inappropriate.” Minerva did not have adequate words for what just happened. Only emphasis.

Bellatrix looked hurt at the surname resurgence. She assumed her familiar and haughty expression, but Minerva knew better and prayed Bella would listen. The professor rearranged Bella’s robes, returning propriety to the witch.

“You are my apprentice, darling. This is…”

“Overdue.”

Minerva fastened her own robes, noting the camaraderie on Bella’s tongue. The professor wondered when they’d crossed line and let mentorship become family. She couldn’t pinpoint the moment.

“We’re not carrying on any semblance of romance,” Bella rationalized and scowled. “You didn’t rob any cradle and I graduate in less then three months.” Her coal eyes beseeched curiously, as if learning the manner of Minerva’s morality.

Though their mentorship would resume in late summer, graduate students were considered junior peers. The paperwork had yet to be submitted, but for all intents and purposes Bella would be offered a graduate apprenticeship at Hogwarts (a junior professorship too, if they played the politics right). Bella patted patterns on the back of the professor’s hand, flicking the Gryffindor’s knuckles with platonic satisfaction. McGonagall pulled away, understanding Bella’s mode of operation even less than before. She wondered many things and attempted some distance.

“Min—

“ _Professor_ McGonagall, given the circumstances.” Minerva slipped her academic hat back on and the dark witch remained her student.

Bellatrix argued, tempest in eye and magic armed up. The professor prayed the Slytherin could control it, but Bella had a bad track record for reining in emotion. It was unnerving to sit and do nothing in the brewing storm, but mentorship meant offering the chance for trust and Minerva found faith in her inaction. The call was well made. Bellatrix managed to rein it in and the magic dissipated. Fight gone out, the dark witch was weak on her feet; even Bella couldn’t escape the magical exhaustion of training. Her student’s hands were leafy, but McGonagall suspected the witch was unaware. The professor shifted them over to a settee by the coffee table, their lesson clearly suspended for the night. The candy tin could wait. Minerva braced the witch against her, soothing them both. Somewhen else, Bella’s face softened with memory.

“Minerva?” Bella’s pale face was ungrounded, calm and scattered.

“Aye, _ghrá_?” Minerva let the name-slip by, not really enjoying formality anyway.

“I haven’t forgotten.” Off-kilter, Bella lived in the past. “That night, two years ago. P—” She regrouped. “Professor, you were kind.” Idly, Bellatrix worried her skin where the outline of a handprint once lay in bruise.

Startled by the understatement, Professor McGonagall remembered that January night well. January 1968. One of those rare times when Bellatrix sought her assistance beyond scholastic matters.

* * *

_Winter holiday eroded and students began returning to Hogwarts, even thought classes wouldn’t resume for another two days. Predictably, most of Ravenclaw had arrived on the early train, along with half of Slytherin, a few Hufflepuffs, and zero Gryffindors. Minerva wasn’t concerned; three more trains would run before tomorrow evening. She was pleased that Flitwick was on duty tonight; the professor had her eye on a tin of Ginger Newts and the latest Transfiguration Today._

_For an hour or so, she devoured Switch’s latest: a lengthy article on the Seasonal Effects of Social Spells. His premise was interesting and touched on the collective nature of magical nexuses. She’d moved on and scoffed at Marston’s unfounded drivel until the urge to post a Howler proved realistic. Two nightcaps later and then snug in bed, her thoughts drifted toward tomorrow — her morning of freedom before the rest of the hellions arrived. Glibly, Minerva entertained eloping with her private library to France. The low light of the oil lamp was lulling and she drifted off…_

_Muffled pounding roused her slumber._

_The professor grumbled discontent but robed quickly. She padded clumsily back to her office and flung the door opeb, thinking Poppy was unduly panicked about supply levels again. Why the mediwitch hadn’t just Flooed was not a consideration as her brain woke up. So she did not expect Bellatrix at her stoop—newly twenty-three and caked in abuse—at three hours past midnight._

_“Godric,” the professor haunted, “what happened?” Discreetly, Minerva waved the battered witch into her office quarters, away from the nosey portraits and through to her personal chambers. The professor had a penchant for comfy armchairs and the kitchen was much the same._

_Bella refused to speak. Refused to look at her. She barely managed touch. The professor didn’t need details. Bella’s black eye and split lip were data enough. McGonagall’s fury raged on backburner and she heated them tea. Her kitchen movements startled Bellatrix repeatedly, those flinches offering awful insight. As black tea brewed, likewise Minerva’s anger steeped._

_She approached Bellatrix cautiously and assessed the damage._

_The dark witch seemed to tolerate closeness, just not touch. The professor drew her wand slowly, making sure Bella had it in sight and had time to acclimate. Minerva healed the visible wounds and decided against waking Madam Pomfrey. If Bella was ambulatory and sound enough to find her mentor in the dead of night, then the hospital wing could likely sleep until tomorrow. Still, Minerva wasn’t throwing out the possibility until she had some verbal confirmations from her apprentice. They sat for a slow time, the professor mending what she could with wand. Nearly an hour later Bellatrix finally stomached touch, allowing the professor to administer healing salve over her arms and face. Then more tea and silence. Another cuppa. And another. Over the third, Bella’s gaze returned to the world, to her hands mostly. Minerva kept her roiled emotion wrapped up, keeping calm and supportive. Gently, she tried to get the witch talking, but Bellatrix was locked. Still, Minerva knew the witch’s body language well enough to get what she needed. In the course of that inquiry, she was thankful for several dissenting shifts and affirmative nods from her apprentice. But some things were harder to say aloud._

_“Were you hurt elsewhere?” McGonagall chose euphemism._

_Bellatrix let this pass by without acknowledgement._

_“Do you need contraceptives?” Minerva clarified._

_Bellatrix looked up for that, her eyes sharp and dark. Ultimately, she shook her head no, wincing when her sore muscles protested the movement._

_A modicum of relief coated Minerva’s sinuses, and she welcomed Bella’s silver-lined reply and the hand that found her own. This was Bella’s attempt at reassurance. The professor had her doubts though, given her protégé’s tendency to play minimalist. But Bellatrix had a way of ensuring her own survival. The professor trusted in this, if not in anything else; Bella would tell her what she needed to know but not a mite more. Minerva squeezed her hand gently, her answer back._

_Bellatrix sat in silence so the professor filled it for them. She spoke of the snowfall, the articles she’d read, and their upcoming lesson plans. When their tea grew cold, McGonagall hummed an old-time cradlesong and boiled another pot that neither would drink. The hour grew very late or very early and the edges of dreamland crept in. The nightscape was upon them and made for a fuzzy attempt at one-sided conversation, but she remained dismayed by the static. Bellatrix remained an ashen wall, tightlipped and stoic in her kitchen. Bone-weary and exhausted, the professor recognized their limits in the dead of night; information about the witch’s attacker would have to wait. The Slytherin either refused or was unable to process further as the scent of sunrise approached._

_Either way, Bellatrix had to sleep._

_The professor cleared the table and deflamed the kettle while her thoughts nettled. She prayed that the other Black sisters would be on the first train at noon. Softly, Minerva prompted her protégé to stand, noting the cloak that Bella still gripped tightly like lifeline. The professor was halfway to summoning Cissa by owl but decided against it, realizing that Narcissa already knew, as evidenced by Bella’s odd talisman in hand. Bella’s emerald cloak was not her own and McGonagall’s stomach was worried by shovels and a swift fondness for a careful blonde. Understanding washed her over, as Bella’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, knowing that Minerva knew. Her protégé didn’t let go of the cloak but allowed the professor’s sudden exploration. Bellatrix was malleable in a way that unsettled McGonagall, having never seen the witch so docile. Bella’s eyes weren’t bright but they certainly weren’t emptied of cinder. A cursory search of pockets yielded a folded note. Scrawled on scrap parchment, the letters were rushed with a slant nothing like Cissa’s careful homework. The ink was smudged and a hasty blot distinguished the “p.” But the contents were clear and without explanation._

_“Care of MG, please.”_

_The professor shivered, hoping Andromeda and Narcissa hadn’t been left behind in a…similar state. The thought trampled her face, but Bella shook her head and the professor breathed again, knowing Bellatrix would have never left Manor Noir were that so. Still, the Black sisters’ safety was under a general—if not immediate—threat. Hogwarts had little jurisdiction outside its own walls, but Minerva could meddle within. The professor escorted a mute Bellatrix to guest chambers, counting on the castle’s magic to help further. As the room swung open, Minerva found her arms full, the sureness of black curls tucked under her chin. Bella held fast for a moment. Her lips trembled horror on Minerva’s neck and she ducked into the room without a backwards glance or word._

_The professor waited fitfully until the telltale wards pinged her magic; Bellatrix was asleep. Despite the hour, McGonagall reported the abuse immediately to the headmaster, hoping for any justice in the world. Albus’ grave expression mirrored her own, this not being their first suspicion over the years. (Dumbledore would go on to personally investigate the incident, but nothing came of it, of course. Bella refused to make a statement, effectively cutting off any further recourse. No barrister could press charges without a plaintiff and the Wizengamot wasn’t known for its magnanimity.)_

_In the mid-morning, a screaming kettle woke the professor when Bellatrix beat her to tea._

_Minerva stormed into the kitchen, cursing her stubborn protégé. One night’s rest wasn’t a cure for battery and she arrived in time as Bella’s knees gave way. Kettle still steaming, McGonagall apparated Bellatrix off to the hospital wing where Madam Pomfrey fussed expertly, muttering notes all the while. Minerva sat by Bella’s bedside, offering triage and counsel; Bellatrix appreciated but accepted neither. Any response was cut short by the timely arrival of the Black sisters. Andromeda rushed to Bella’s side, harshness covering her worry; apparently she hadn’t been home during the incident. Meda’s mouth ran a mile a minute and Bellatrix cracked a tired smile at the predictability. Narcissa wintered silently by the window, her expression unreadable. The dark witch squeezed Minerva’s hand, making a tacit request. Minerva gently squeezed back and made for Narcissa, who gazed impassively out at the grounds._

_The professor didn’t touch the fair witch, knowing Cissa couldn’t abide that this morning._

_She did, however, Tergeo the dried blood out from under Cissa’s nails and case the witch for injury. Finding none apparent, Minerva offered the emerald cloak back to the blonde. The blonde witch flinched at the rapport but acknowledged their teacher with the slightest incline of chin. An icy flurry of appreciation snowed the air and Minerva held back her surprise; she wasn’t used to Cissa’s magic colliding outwardly. Professor McGonagall understood this as gentle gratitude, along with some phenomenal shift that she couldn’t name. Narcissa’s face might have obfuscated, but her trembling hands did not. How Minerva wanted to gather the blonde up and beg forgiveness for the world, the world all cracked and faulted by corrupted rocks. Her toes even tipped forward, but Bellatrix snapped at Andy and familiar bickering filled the room._

_Narcissa sighed and the moment was gone, whatever it had been._

_There was a break in the arguing and the professor took a few minutes to reassure the middle sister, Andromeda’s face so full of fright and guilt. Of the three, Meda was the only one who hugged her, her emotional tones thanking the professor profusely for the kindness, for the humanity. Unsettled by all three, Minerva took her leave, allowing the family some privacy. She made the mistake of looking back: Andy hovered between her sisters like it would help. Bella’s eyes never left Cissa. Cissa’s never left Minerva’s. And the professor tore at the anguish in those careworn blues._

_Along with Bellatrix, Dumbledore questioned the younger Black sisters, of course._

_Andromeda was frantically unhelpful, having not been present for whatever had occurred. Narcissa was formidably quiet and merely redirected them back to Bellatrix. Her face was haunted and resolute, far too grave for a recent débutante._ _Minerva took the blonde for a wise impetus and Hogwarts took its own precautions. Pomfrey underwent a trauma rotation at St. Mungo’s and hired an on-call mediwitch assistant, and the faculty added additional wards to the common rooms and property lines. And Albus did whatever clandestine good he could. Hogwarts couldn’t control external events, but it could keep most evil outside its gates. The school was a haven, especially for those who weren’t safe beyond its protection._

* * *

Steadfast in her refusal, Bella hadn’t alluded to that incident again…until now, as they regrouped on the settee.

“I implore you,” McGongall pleaded for the millionth time. “Tell me what happened that night.” This was the closest she’d ever gotten, but the professor knew Bellatrix wouldn’t confide this time either. The best she would get was red herring.

“I’m fond of you.” The dark witch redirected and her fingers traced the upholstery, searching for words. “I can’t help the feeling…” Bellatrix trailed off, words as elusive as path. She combed Minerva’s eyes for guidance.

McGonagall prickled at the odd choice of word. _Feeling_. Peculiar that Bella didn’t go with friendship. Lust even. But _feeling_? Perhaps it was the best summation for this academic kinship of theirs, this affection. Perhaps it was something else entirely. She certainly loved the woman before her, this bright star, but love was not _love_. And that…she did not; it wasn’t something McGonagall had considered. The witch was her charge and the hypothetical situation raised her hackles. _'Ah, Albus, how the tables have turned.’_ He’d been gentle with Minerva’s misplaced affection then and remained her close confidante now. She recalled the mistakes and assumptions of her own youth. Her own protégé would be less amiable.

“Sickle for your thoughts,” Bellatrix said. “What mechanisms keep you ticking?” The Slytherin was fluid and formal, signaling her sincerity.

Bellatrix lacked a crucial understanding regarding the difference between sex and affection, a nuance that was generally unbeknownst but currently showing. That oddity should have won Minerva’s focus, but she was distracted by the past; McGonagall recalled her early twenties; the unrequited infatuation still tasted bitter in her mouth. Taking some space, the professor patted Bella’s knee and left her apprentice on the sofa. She walked to the window and stared down the rain. It pelted the glass and Minerva chose her words carefully, starting with truth.

“You’re my favourite student, but that is different from _feeling_ , Bella, do you understand?” Minerva didn’t think Bellatrix did. “Miss Black, that was not a…an appropriate expression of what we are.” No good would come of that kind of touch.

“What are we, Professor?” Bellatrix approached, her head cocked and whispered. This piece of humanity escaped her.

Minerva convinced herself insane, thinking that the witch must understand societal scripts by this point. The professor didn’t press deeper and regretted it later on. Beyond prudence at this point, Minerva hoped some semblance of disclosure would realign them. Clearly uncomfortable, the professor spoke her affection, albeit stilted — they practiced it often and spoke of far less.

“We’re matched in wit and intellect, Miss Black. I’m your mentor. Your major professor, and at times, your exasperated confidante. A good friend, dear, and soon your colleague. Nothing less or more.” Professor McGonagall was reservedly candid. These were simple truths and she saw no harm in verity.

“I see.” Bellatrix was amused at the neutrality. Minerva wasn’t the best at demonstrative language. “You’ve an appalling way with words when you play Slytherin. Do you take me for a Ministry diplomat? _Nothing less or more, Miss Black_ ,” she mocked. “Professor, you’re legislating. Poorly.”

Minimalism had never been her strong suit and Minerva had the good grace to sigh. They had their complex truths too. She allowed her mouth actual endearment, the tone conveying more depth than the words.

“You have my ear and trust. My agency from time to time.” The professor softened. “You’re my apprentice, daft girl. My favoured. My charge.”

“Your apprentice.” Bella mouthed this. There was safety in having a tethered place in the world that didn’t hit back.

“You belong here, yes.”

The professor understood Bella’s meaning and conceded this easily. She wondered how much Bella needed to hear this. She wondered how awful House Black was to its children. Bellatrix joined her professor at the window. Her arm made about the woman’s waist, in the way they sometimes touched without impropriety or repercussion.

“That’s different that desire,” Bellatrix said thoughtfully. “Wolves have packs, a sense of belonging, but it’s instinctual, nothing so intentional as desire.” The witch waggled her head, weighing the paradox. “But that ache for belonging can only be desire.”

Despite the awkward topic Minerva had to chuckle. Of course her student would pick _now_ for a philosophical gander, but the professor understood that they’d segued into a discussion of events and not a revisitation. Her doting hand repositioned Bella’s curls and wry notes passed her lips as she made some attempt to keep the conversation relevant.

“The entire school desires you in some capacity or another,” the emerald witch reminded. “You play at it.” Bella’s smirk bore into her, though she didn’t fancy to look. Minerva rolled eyes at the ego snugged up to her side. “My feelings on the subject are inconsequential, Miss Black.”

“For tit’s sake, loose the honorific,” Bella sassed, hiding her tension.

“Charming, Bellatrix,” Minerva said, giving up the ghost. “But I am your mentor _,_ regardless of our friendship. Do you understand me?” Bellatrix was also family and they never spoke about that. Professor McGonagall turned a strained face toward her student. “Academia has always been our language. I don’t understand why you are suddenly insisting on shadows.”

“And you’ve built house on the hill of professionalism. Salazar forbid that you show any sense of humanity,” Bellatrix scoffed them off track. “Gilded perhaps, but you build your own cage.” Bella didn’t like how Minerva tucked herself away. Didn’t understand how the professor could be so passionate in their lessons and never show a lick of that scathing wit to the world. “All this…aside,” Bellatrix ignored Minerva’s snort of disbelief. “There’s plenty of pole and hole in town. I don’t understand why you deny yourself art from time to time. You’re certainly enough of a museum already.”

“Yes, because I always run my liaisons by you for approval,” Minerva brogued wryly. Bella’s sentiment was weirdly heartwarming, but no way on this side of Mount Olympus was she going to dignify that right now. “You’re not my curator, Bella, though I appreciate your odd sense of worry for my…artfulness.”

“Art is only half. Can’t have art without experience and half of Hogsmeade foams at the mouth for your company,” Bellatrix snapped. “I’m less concerned for your art and more so for your cunt.”  
  
The professor burst out a hearty laugh at Bella’s bluntness. Her apprentice was too bold sometimes, and Helga help her, Minerva liked it. Still, some things wouldn’t be discussed until they were more colleague than in _loco parentis_.

“Mind yourself, Black. I’m not in the mood for your odd sense of…protection.” Minerva admonished, but patted her student’s cheek. The professor searched Bella’s eyes looking for whatever confusion Bellatrix seemed to house. Minerva hesitated to use the word family to denote their affections, for Bellatrix might not be ready for that. But that’s what they were. Bella was just having a hard time understanding how their affection could exist in the first place. And what that meant for displaying the sentiment. “And while I don’t doubt your separation of the topic, you have to admit that you’re a bit biased, given your…affections tonight.”

Frustrated, Bellatrix pulled away and paced. Bemused, Minerva watched from the window, at least feeling familiar; she and her office floors were well accustomed to Bella’s boots.

“Do you think I _wish_ to feel this way?” the apprentice snapped. “Fondness is folly, but here we are,” Bella sneered, chastising their relationship. Engendered by such shelter, the witch continued to pace.

“You’ve always hated any sort of love,” Minerva drawled, fingers drumming behind her on the sill. “Godric forbid that you deign to its level. Think of this as practice. Helga knows you could use some.” Far be it for the professor to dam the sudden candor. It was too frank for the hour but evening had loosened their tongues.

“Love creates weakness,” Bellatrix ranted. “It’s barely manageable with you, let alone with _her_.” Violently, the dark witch shook her head, clamping her teeth down on the accidental sentiment, but not its magic.

The candy tin on the table exploded. Silence struck with thunder and the rain picked up.

“Well.” Minerva’s nose crinkled. She waved her hand and the tin composited back to normal. “Let’s pause a wee moment on that.”

“Let’s not and say we did.”

“You can’t avoid—”

“You’ve an annoying habit of friendship,” Bellatrix hissed and her magic sparked irritation.

“Jesus, Black, you’re no peach either. Watch those flares.” McGonagall sighed at Bella’s unusual brand of emotionality. Propped by the window wall, the professor kept her distance from the sparks. “For sanity’s sake, spit it out and try to avoid the potted plants.”

McGonagall winced as Bella’s magic gathered and hit a portrait nastily. Its subject screamed obscenities, running out of frame and through the portrait network. The poor chap likely went to sulk in the hospital wing. Minerva signed and waited.

“Don’t flatter yourself to think I pine for _you_ , professor.” Bellatrix wore the floorboards thin, her eyes roving her mentor’s frame. “I’ve another object to effect on.”

A moment.

The professor’s eyes widened, sockets boxing. A short laugh bubbled out of Minerva’s chest and Bellatrix unhappily watched the dawn of comprehension. She should have held her tongue, but was glad she didn’t.

“Hell in a hand basket, you’re in love!” Minerva was horrified, pleased for the witch. Nurturing was not Bella’s strongest suit and monogamy was her worst.

“Unbearably,” Bella said as adrenaline smacked her heart. Blood pounded, most of it not her own.

“You idiot girl.” Minerva choked on disbelief. Thrown for a loop, the professor stepped toward the pacing witch, faintly inclined to waltz Bella into celebration. Instead she grinned roguishly. “You thought to precurse this excellent revelation by kissing the wrong witch?”

Bellatrix gave her an odd look.

“You didn’t seem disinclined and I trust you,” the witch said simply. “What’s _love_ got to do with it?” But Bella stopped pacing, looking carefully at Minerva and tapping the floor in thought.

McGonagall had a terrible inkling, that Bellatrix equated sex with _any_ sort of fond (or un-fond) feeling. That would explain a whole slew of things. The professor frowned. The Slytherin could be indiscriminate and Minerva had assumed that Mandrakes would sing sweet before anyone captured dark Bella’s heart. Bellatrix had followers, sycophant lackeys that she tolerated. There were also acquaintances and solid allies with whom the woman socialized, albeit under some amount of duress. There were even some casual cronies, but the eldest Black sister had no confidantes, save for her mentor and sisters. Though, Andromeda not so much lately. Their estrangement had not escaped McGonagall’s notice. Still, Bella would blast mountains for Andy if push merited shove. _Friend_ , however, was an elusive notion for the Slytherin. In the route of their mentorship, Minerva had always known she was the closest thing to (besides Narcissa).

But for Bellatrix to take on a true lover? Oh what secrets the chit had kept down low.

The professor knew she and Bella had a mutual respect. The intimacy of academia created that bonhomie, but their mentorship had fostered affection beyond the bare necessities. Bella was reluctant to admit it aloud, but she adored the professor. _I trust you_ , she’d said. There wasn’t time for Minerva to be touched by the sentiment, only time to backpedal and clock the witch into comprehension. Sating lust with each other was not an option, not to mention that Bella’s heart was already given. As such, the professor was uncertain why Bellatrix assumed their affection ought result in coupling. The feelings between them and Bella’s course of action did not match. True, the chamber lights were sultry and her protégé was ever so lovely. And clearly they both enjoyed the company of women. So McGonagall would dig the story out now. The world would certainly misunderstand and Min wanted all doors to remain open for her best student.

“You weren’t disinclined at all,” Bellatrix repeated openly. “It wrote on your face.”

They stood a pace apart, stilled and stilted. Minerva built enamel.

“You’re are loved, but not…” the professor trailed off and stuck with education. “You’re my mentee and such affection simply does not belong, though you have my utmost friendship if you wish it.”

Bella’s eyes were calculating and without hint.

Needing buffer, McGonagall eyed the books spread haphazardly over every surface in her office; they had a habit of over-sourcing their lessons. She slammed a raggedy text back into place and then another. Bella amused at her mentor’s coping mechanism. The dark witch left Minerva to it and dawdled back over to the desk, her boots scuffing on offbeats. Having lost the squand in their momentary passion, Bella found it wedged between a heavy paperweight and a messy pile of ungraded essays. She scowled at the dratted thing.

“Friends don’t hide friends’ wands,” Bellatrix muttered. Keenly, she searched Minerva’s desktop for her actual wand but to no avail. “I’ll trade you decency for it.” Her tone said otherwise.

McGonagall snorted and continued to work by the window bookcase. She paused her tidying, eyes green and serious at the woman. Her mouth twitched, self-humoring.

“Claim desire if you must. You win anyone you set sights on. Couldn’t you have chosen a less ensorcelling hobby?”

“Evidently not.” The dark witch groused a barrage of complex revelation spells, wandlessly and without result. “My wand, Minerva,” Bellatrix snapped. “Couldn’t you have found better ways to annoy me?” Pointedly, Bella snapped the dreaded squand in half, daring her mentor to comment. Dangling the pieces, Bellatrix let them fall to the floor. Distraction was a beautiful thing when it worked.

It didn’t.

“Five galleons, Miss Black,” Minerva brogued. “On my desk by noon tomorrow.” She put away some prized scrolls, but wasn’t derailed. “Do you think me deaf, Bella? My own house speaks of your…prowls. I wish you wouldn’t _do_ as you do. You’re high profile and nothing good will come of it.”

“At least five of your lions would provide good debate on that point.”

The Slytherin smirked salaciously, her reputation viral and well earned. Bella picked up the paperweight, enjoying the sheen of mixed metal. The professor tsked but otherwise ignored the last statement. She shoved another book into shelf. McGonagall’s back was to the witch, her face careful and shrewd.

“I surmise your lover shares my wish, or has love finally engendered your fidelity?” Given this evening, Minerva was keen to discern edges.

Bella’s face twisted into rebellion and regret. Her veins sent off apology and she passed oath and dote down to the dungeons. The rejoining reply was hearty and felt. Bellatrix put the paperweight down, her arms full of burden already.

“She abides what I am,” the Slytherin hissed, warning Minerva to starve off this subject. “Without question my fealty is hers alone. And she’s my…she’s not my _lover_.” The word turned over in the Bella’s mouth, unencompassing in all aspects.

The professor dusted her hands off and turned ’round, repositioning her glasses. Minerva pushed, unwilling to accept that vague spin. They needn’t discuss the precariousness of sapphism in their world. In the grand scheme of dangers, the professor suspected this didn’t tip the scale. Black would do as she pleased, society be damned.

“A woman,” Minerva said, “but _not_ your lover?” A glance to Bella’s face identified the missing word. “Aye, not _yet_.” It was one variable solved, but the equation had many.

Her apprentice shifted uncomfortably, revealing half-truths. Minerva knew with constructing shame, that Bella would have spilled soul if she pressed hard enough. Friendship, it seemed, grew vulnerability in the Bella-creature. However, Professor McGonagall wasn’t a cruel woman and she steered away from such ill will. Minerva refocused on the current revelation.

“How divergent of you.” The professor’s eyebrow rose; restraint wasn’t in Bella’s vocabulary.

Minerva turned the thought over, unsurprised about the gender. Bellatrix took lovers of all genders, but rarely seduced without purpose. She was always mission over divertissement. But when Bella did seek passion, women were her rumored pleasure. The professor recalled several lovely blondes from Hufflepuff, that redhead sprite from Gryffindor, and a quiet genius from Ravenclaw. The Slytherins weren’t off limits, but Bellatrix was loyal to her house and primarily enjoyed alliance without drama there. There was rhyme in Bella’s madhouse, Minerva decided. The witch had always reasoned well, straddling the line between the good ol’ boys club and their wettest nightmare. Between queen bee and honey trap.

“Well I’ve never been convergent,” Bella sneered from behind Minerva’s desk. She toed open the right bottom drawer, still looking for her wand.

“I’m not suggesting you are, dear,” the professor agreed, “but it’s not like you to…refrain.” The smallest quirk of Minerva’s lip. “Unless you plan to ditch idiocy and wed her.”

She let this hang, not expecting Bellatrix to dignify it aloud. The sharp look she received was telling though. They didn’t speak much about Bella’s engagement, but everyone knew the witch hated Lestrange; the betrothed had spent the past year warring and that situation heavily contributed to Bella’s actions tonight. The dreaded wedding was set for this summer, following Bella’s graduation. The Slytherin avoided talk of it and the Daily Prophet was viral enough without Bella’s word. Minerva pained for the witch’s gritted distress. It was bad enough, the arranged marriage, but Bella’s heart in the mix would make it agonizing. Bella’s restraint with her chosen indicated a significant commitment to this would-be paramour. Pure-blood men courted in this fashion, seeking flesh from anyone but their intended. In a twisted way, this was considered a pleasantry. Wryly, the professor appreciated the witch’s odd attempt at…cultural norms. She didn’t doubt Bella’s affection for her beloved, but it did explain the sudden timing of their own accidental dalliance.

Such was Bellatrix.

“Don’t go there,” Bella said softly. “Summer will come soon enough.” Wryly, “You’re invited by the way.” The dark witch continued to fuss with the desk, lifting up parchment and various doodads.

The professor was pleased at that, but now wasn’t the time for trifle.

“You’re being atypical in all this, dear, given your subversive self.” Minerva sighed from the window bookshelf, observing Bella’s antics. “Marriage shouldn’t be a prison sentence. Break tradition and court her outright.”

“Defy the Blacks and marry my sapphic lover?” Bella wished. “Yes, _completely_ plausible,” she cackled from the desk, the wishful absurdity striking her hilarious. She wondered if Minerva would fight so hard if she knew the specifics.

The professor frowned and took off her glasses. She spelled them into their case, which zoomed across the room to shut itself promptly in the main desk drawer. Bellatrix shot her a dirty look, not finding her wand in there either. It would have been easier if Bella weren’t a pure-blood. The general wizarding populace was more accepting. Give it a few decades and Minerva knew same-sex relationships would be welcomed in the upcoming century. There would always be antagonists, of course, and pure-blood extremists were firmly entrenched in their oppressive views. The Blacks were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the closest the wizarding world had to a ruling class. Bellatrix was effectively royal and her life was not her own. There would be no easy out for the dark witch, but the professor hoped regardless.

“It could be done, _ghrá_ ,” Minerva said, the words ringing hollow but true. “Some risks are worth taking.”

“Maybe for half-bloods,” Bella said sharply. “Desire doesn’t dictate reality. Given your vehemence on that recent subject, forgive me if I don’t heed your matrimonial advice.” She wanded another drawer open, scowling.

“Rubbish,” Minerva said wryly, ignoring the smokescreen jibes. “You’re courting a witch. The desire must be real enough. Though nothing so dramatic as your sullen theatrics.” She thinned her mouth at Bella’s raiding. “Dear Godric, stop rifling. Second drawer to your left.” McGonagall sighed as her apprentice flung it open, but she hummed a short Revelio and Bella’s wand reappeared next to a stack of fresh parchment. “You skipped the simple fix,” the professor chastised.

Bellatrix sighed peaceably, reunited with her wand. She twirled it idly and perched on the desk. Thoughtfully. The professor waited by the windowsill, thumbing another book for home.

“She’s my touchstone,” Bellatrix said carefully, wand in hand, soul in her eyes.

“I have no doubt,” Minerva said softly, pleased her apprentice had fallen for one of life’s normalcies. Her student was an incredible force, but Bella’s brilliance got in the way of adulthood and all its associated misery and wonder. “Does she feel the same?” The professor shelved one last book in the closest case and allowed Bella the illusion of nonchalance.

“She’s to be married.” Bella whispered, rending heart. “And I’ll be Madame Lestrange. Pure-blood mutuality is a curse to that end.”

Compassionately, “Bellatr—”

“Don’t wail me some sordid speech about love conquering all,” the dark witch hissed. “I don’t want some dreamy lie to comfort her at night.”

Politics wasn’t Minerva’s favorite realm—though given her high station in their world it was unavoidable—but McGonagall was well versed in subverting the patriarchy. Still, the government of the Black family was always rough to mine. The professor scoffed and tried again.

“Grant me a little credit, Bellatrix. I merely saying that you have more power than you think. Engagement contract or not, everything has a loophole. I may not know all the specifics, but that stone of yours grants you clout over your clan. Use it.” Her eyes were emphatic and the professor sighed at the blindness of youth. “Life is a long time to live when you’re chained to duty alone. You’re a witch in a wizard’s world, but that doesn’t mean you can’t rule as queen. Make them bow and the rest is just a chess game.”

Bellatrix wondered how much Minerva understood about her station in the Black hierarchy. Sure, her mentor knew the general lore of the Blackstone and that it marked her as the future Matriarch of the family. It wasn’t something they’d discussed overtly, but Minerva wasn’t isolated from high society. McGonagall may have been a half-blood, but pure-bloods valued power. And Minerva was that.

“And they wonder which of us is the serpent,” Bella mused fondly.

But the benefit was done and Bellatrix worked her thoughts overtime, charting out some new avenue on the fringes of mind. The professor saw her words sink in, swallowed for another time. In the meanwhile, Bella’s eyes were fraught with ocean.

“Duty I can bear, but I won’t saddle her to the same horse,” Bellatrix burnt openly, her protection raging. “She can ride me and the political tide, but I’ll not tie her up anywhere else besides the bedroom. She isn’t a doll and I won’t play her as such, even if I am queen.” Unable, or perhaps unwilling to dam, Bella’s fervent emotion seeped down to the dungeons, where it landed in a great heap of hearts. “There are other ways to mark her as mine.”

The professor raised a high brow, marveling at the low tender in Bella’s voice. Whoever held her protégé’s devotion was loved indeed. Bella’s face shifted, realizing the vulnerability she’d let out. The rain pelted outside and Minerva smelled the impending subject change. The glass fogged under her back, magic and emotion having steamed the room. McGonagall leaned against the windowpane, welcoming the cool but undecided about the heat. The pane was chilled from the weather and Minerva enjoyed its soothing properties.

Bellatrix didn’t do well with sharing and coped with her usual combat.

“Then again, she’s everlasting.” Bella was flippant with that deep sentiment. She fought off emotion, not wanting to discuss her beloved anymore tonight, knowing they would anyway. “No, this is about my _alchemy_ for you.”

The witch canvassed Minerva’s form, needing a trusted book not her own. Her eyes didn’t shy, unwilling to be shamed for such beauty, even if wayward and ill-advised. Bella’s lips brushed into a smirk, dying quickly as her mentor took this in stride.

“Hide your soul behind lust, if you must.” The professor softened. “We don’t have to discuss your heart anymore tonight.” It was painful to watch Bella ward off emotion like nightmare.

“Let’s not discuss anything at all,” Bella murmured sex like weapon. “Or did I invent your interest?” She imagined her beloved’s sounds twined with Minerva’s and palmed the skull necklace around her neck. Fondly, she tried not to think of the dungeons at all but it was all her thoughts could think.

“I won’t help you self-destruct.” Minerva faced the window, frustrated at Bella’s demons. “I won’t help you avoid your affection for her. Not when she’s your beacon in storm.” The professor prayed to the rain and resolved to protect the almost-lovers however she could. Minerva bound her thoughts to the beating downpour. Outside, the sheets of weather came down like hammer. The world would be cruel to them, but strong was the lover that could handle Bellatrix. However, their mentorship needed recentering. “Consider our lessons on hiatus until this is out of your system.”

Bella floundered as Minerva pulled the ledge out from underneath. Their mentorship anchored Bellatrix in the fucked and unfair world. She panicked at the idea of losing that connection and her veins went sharp and angry. The dark witch felt the bloodrite raise hell and lock her in, reminding her of brimstone and duty. Summer wasn’t so far, but Bellatrix was already married to vows and fucked fate. Damn Minerva for doing the right thing. Sex magic had its benefits and Bella’d hoped that consummation would have annulled his hold. And _His_.

Hiatus. But this was Bella’s bed made. How she hated her father.

Snarling, the witch made way to the window as well. Professor McGonagall startled at the hug. Bella’s embrace was angry and scared, dying and cared. Regardless, Minerva cradled the witch, this insufferable creature she adored and warred. Bella’s lips sought hers again, this kiss merely seeking pardon. McGonagall let her, realizing Bella’s affection couldn’t be bound by label or morality. Not tonight at least. And the professor’s demons didn’t mind the heat. She brushed kind knuckles on Bella’s face, her softness seeking to tame, not rile. Minerva pulled back gently and found Bella’s eyes far away. McGonagall swore she’d seen that look many times before, but was having trouble placing when.

“Something to share with the class?” Minerva’s eyes twinkled, enchanted with Bella’s distraction.

Caught, Bellatrix refocused, her cheeks colored from daydream (and blips of sweet magic answering from the dungeon).

“I hate women,” Bella hissed. Her huff didn’t quite cover the flush. She laid her forehead on the professor’s shoulder.

“Your face lights up for her,” McGonagall said candidly. “Let me protect her. I am far too fond of you to tempt regret.”

“You’ll _regret_ more than fondness, Minerva, I assure you.” Bellatrix snapped idly. “But it’s good to know she has another defender.”

“I can’t without her name.”

“No.”

“Then your word. Stop trying to prove your devotion with self-destruction. She already knows, I’m sure.”

Bellatrix stilled and didn’t answer. The professor amended.

“Promise that you’ll try.”

The dark witch dipped her jaw.

“Then I think that concludes our lesson for today,” the professor whispered, soothing the witch’s temple briefly, calling it quits. “All is forgiven.”

“All things?” Bella backtracked.

“Aye, lass.” Gently, Minerva pulled up Bella’s reluctant head. She didn’t understand the mixture on Bellatrix’s face. Rage and friendship. Lust. But above all, the strange relief of resignation. Abruptly, Bellatrix backed away. She lingered by the office doorway, allowing their eyes to catch.

“I regret the pain that I…cause.” Some affliction painted her irises black.

“Hush, dear, you haven’t hurt me,” Minerva reassured. She wasn’t sure what to make of Bella’s sudden remorse. The professor was uncertain which fear she chased off but never doubted that it was significant to her student. “But nothing of this sort will continue, understand?” McGonagall’s voice was tired, but this exhaustion wouldn’t sleep.

“I would rather remain with you as my master,” Bellatrix said, hoping Minerva would understand. Knowing in the end that she would not. Her mind riddled the lost future, unhappily so.

Bella was unreadable, waiting on a last confirmation.

“In no way has your apprenticeship been revoked.” Professor McGonagall chose her words carefully. “You are a fine student, the best I’ve had to date. That has not changed, Bella.” In an authentic moment, Minerva let out her full affection; a dared hope of strangled rope. “Witchling, you do mean the world to me.”

Bella breathed, assuaged of their kinship. The youth of her face softened for a small and important moment and then hardened. But it was enough. Minerva showed her pride.

“I surmise that one day, the student will become master. Your skills surpass mine in many respects.” With a lilt, Minerva returned them to lighter conversation. But the professor was unhappy with the wrinkled events, wedged between her and the brooding Miss Black.

“And lessons?” Bella asked, knowing Minerva would keep word.

“A short hiatus, Bellatrix, just until the new moon.”

It wasn’t ideal, but they both needed time to recenter and mend with stitches and time. “Your dedication to the craft is unparalleled, but if you care for our friendship beyond academia, you’ll give me this.”

“I will.” Bellatrix huffed.

“Stop sulking, deary. It’s barely a fortnight.” The professor considered the fortress she called protégé. “Take the time. Do whatever normal seventh-years do after hours.”

“You told me not to prowl.” A somber smile graced Bella’s lips.

“Aye, lass. Take up knitting like Narcissa then.” Minerva smirked, enjoying Bella’s horror. “The break will do you good. You wanted to tackle plasma spells next and your magic needs extra charge for that. Fire is a fickle medium.” The professor considered her student.

“Plasma is the medium. Fire is the reaction,” Bella said habitually.

“Your arrogance never fails to teach.”

“Pray I never teach you anything, Professor.” Bella’s tone vacillated while she decided on her soul.

Family magic thrashed her without warning and someone else’s disquiet anvilled Bella’s skull. Her hands itched to appall. The dungeons called. The firelight lamps flickered and extinguished Minerva’s office into pitch. A moment and they lit again, waved on by Bella’s hand. Foreboding washed over Professor McGonagall; the magic tasted old and dark. Bellatrix regarded the lamps scornfully and made for the door. She left her mentor with prophesied secrets.

“Darkness seeks light for battle. A candle can ward off shadows, but lights burn to extinguish. The question remains: which masters the other.”

“Bella…” Professor McGonagall spoke nothing.

“You can have your fortnight, but keep your lights. You’ll need them when night is come and damns us all.” Bellatrix settled her threats and left, leaving unsettled emeralds in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review, loves. 
> 
> Credits: Adele – Rolling in the Deep, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Little Mermaid – Poor Unfortunate Souls, Robert Frost – Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street – My Friends. Tina Turner – What’s Love Got to Do with It


	4. May 2, 1970 II – Toujours Noir

_May 2, 1970. Back to classroom 1B._

Professor McGonagall left recollection to the past, and returned to the present and Bella’s unfortunate path. They were in the same heap, piled on the same floor, and the classroom remained a violated space, all strewn and torn. Minerva regretted Bella’s precarious mind, regretted the young fate now sealed to the Dark Lord. The academic fought for understanding, but the difference of two months didn’t make a monster. And the disarrayed trappings all wrapped together — Bella’s hearts, Bella’s darks.

And that horrid raping revelation.

The word _rape_ struck Minerva ad nauseum, washing her throat vile with bile. It crossed and nailed her chest, her anger dripping and red like tartan. Despite their cast-iron roles, Minerva cradled her bloodied charge on the floor. Flensed and without defence, the professor rocked the witch, her hands reigned and rusted.

Bellatrix was faint, too labored to protest. She let go of the professor’s plait and cracked out a shallow cackle, her breath wavering.

McGonagall made a face and tried to elevate the witch with one arm, but her other hand was tasked still, pressed tight to Bella’s newest self-infliction. The Slytherin’s blood-soaked dress was sticky and stiff, blackened by the moon’s nightlight. Minerva had already staunched the rib wound, but Episkeys only had a moderate effect on the rent over Bella’s heart. Managing it finally, McGonagall hauled her apprentice upright into a one-armed awkward hug. Not liking her suspicions, she pressed down firmly on the wound and wondered at the method. Some magical wounds resisted healing (water and metal injuries, in particular), but in this case the culprit had been glass. Glass usually did very well with magic — many delicate potions required borosilicate cauldrons. Minerva wondered at the oddity but Bella’s head suddenly lolled, flopping onto the professor’s shoulder. Her blood trickled between McGonagall’s fingers and the sanguine vintage vested the air, plum drunk in the moon-shot room.

“Goddess abov—” Minerva croaked out, her voice raked and soddy. “I’m here. I could have…helped.” There really was no proper word choice here.

Bellatrix coughed out a laugh, a wince as it stretched her open skin.

“No help for hell,” she chortled and fragmented in Minerva’s ear. “We’re ancient blood. Me. Meda. Cissy. Understand? You will. I willed, vowed for them both. For Cissa-mine.” Bella’s giggle strangled and teetered on sanity, and she sang to herself unsoundly, “Taaaake the rape, to save the grapes…”

Tear-sprung, the professor thought the woman deranged and lost to delirium. But then Bellatrix tottered and refocused on reality. Derisively, the Slytherin hissed.

“I will _teach_ you Black.” Fury-wrung, Bella shifted, siphoning strength from some untapped reservoir.

“ _Ghrá_ , you must wait until you’re healed. Nothing good from more magic tonight.” Utterly out of realm, Minerva allowed the hard-earned embrace to loosen (slightly).

“Pretty half-blood,” Bella wisped, her lesson brushing chastely on McGonagall’s cheek. “My pedigree weeps black magic. Come bear witness.” The dark witch dragged out sibilant like her core magic, letting it hiss and fill her mouth. “There is no healing from this life and I’m not waiting for death.” Bellatrix was catastrophe, heavy lids haunting and pupils wide as moon.

In the ghosting depths, McGonagall swore she saw images of little sense and disconnect: ravine swings and grapevines. There were magicks here that Minerva didn’t command and her apprentice obviously had something to share.

“Bell—”

“Hushabye,” she rasped, “we’ve no time for your dramatics.”

Hastily, Bella covered the professor’s hand, their blood-slipped digits brushing in the dark. Her fingers dipped in the red and Bellatrix dug through history, tearing out the necessities. She drew runes down the professor’s fingers and continued onto the back of Minerva’s hand. McGonagall twisted surprise at the hoary magic—an enchantment without light or corporeal form—and the hearty tendrils wrapped over them, pulsing time. The professor knew it was a primeval magic, one too old to touch or catalogue. The mauled floor didn’t do any wonders for health and Bella’s breathing was forced. The professor pressed harder against the injury, praying the foolhardy woman hadn’t collapsed a lung mid-spell. The Slytherin finished a second set of runes on Minerva’s knuckles and traced whorls down to the professor’s wrist. Her movements were far too practiced to be Seer and far too old to be safe. Her apprentice completed the gate-script and explained unhelpfully before casting.

“Blackrite has mind of its own,” Bellatrix said seriously. “The pull can be tempered, but it wins in the end. Now don’t fight it, we don’t want to get stuck.”

“I don’t thin—”

“ _Toujours pur, toujours Noir. Révéler est à savior_. Always pure, always Black. To reveal is to know.” Bellatrix murmured a legacy never meant to pass beyond her bloodline. Casting the mantra outside the Noir fold was a direct betrayal of heritage. But then again there were few choices, none good. Best to let her mentor see Black family lore for herself.

Swiftly, the magic coursed through them.

McGonagall retched as the miasma stalked her veins. It crept into soul corners and dug graves in spades, expanding all the bends that space hadn’t yet met. Instinctively, the professor held Bellatrix to her; the last ditch effort against the hurling storm. Minerva’s body left her and foreign sights took hold.

And the world split like a melon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it, the set-up. Read and review, darlings.


	5. 1900-something – First Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the memories begin.

“ _Crucio._ ”

The witch—on the tail end of eight—cowered in a dirty corner and cried out. She was tattered by emotion and shivers crawled her well-formed limbs.

_[Professor McGonagall knew this was a memory, though not of the Pensieve sort. Family memories could be passed down by other methods. The practice room was little more than a dungeon, barren with the misery of moss and melancholy. Its architecture was archaic, a dim gothic that belonged to centuries past. It seemed that Bellatrix intended her professor be well learnt in Black history. Minerva couldn’t place the two occupants of the room, child and adult, but she assumed—correctly—that this was some generation of Black at Manor Noir. The wizard’s face was shadowed by the memory and low light, his robes formal like the turn of the century. Minerva stood sentry the child, knowing that her comfort came decades too late for the scared bundle, cuddled to the stonework of a cold corner.]_

The wizard was a sterile man, unforgiving and cloaked in his robes. Hatred skyscraped his otherwise handsome features and his black eyes towered unkindly above the child.

“Again.” His echo menaced the room and played nightmare for timbre.

The girl huddled her whimpers, knees hugged to her frail chest. Folded like this, her unruly curls charred her skin. The little witch gave off the sense of spiritual malnourishment, fed but not with any sustaining gain or grain. Puberty had yet to arrive but her features were already strikingly Black, albeit still fragile in the early stages of life. Salt tracks lined her cheeks and the tilt of a proud chin sharpened her face. Remnants of antagonism glazed her, but the girl’s childhood overruled with emotion.

The little witch hiccupped and sulked, hiding her indignation poorly.

_[Minerva’s anger hummed low, graveling up her spine. She abhorred child abuse and had always been wary of memory-scapes. Why Bellatrix had brought her to this particular memory, she couldn’t be sure. It was a hateful lesson but her apprentice wasn’t without purpose. Resigned, the professor surveyed the child and sighed at the familial spark that so often graced her classroom. The Black sisters came by it honestly and this cousin was nothing less than theirs. She wondered who though and recalled her erstwhile au pair, Dorea Black. Dee had a wild way that never failed to drag up a smile. McGonagall doubted the Black family was aware of Dee’s stint as her nanny and that seemed par for the course. But memory waits for no woman and it dragged the Gryffindor out of thought, the bends of time replaying this pocket._

_The professor couldn’t feel the floor and the child stared right through her, but Minerva kept her morality and tried to sooth the little witch nonetheless. She pained for the mistreated creature, so obviously Black; the witchling had Dee’s snark and carefulness, the same mane — curls as unruly as Dee’s own fiery locks. In the shadows it was hard to determine colour, but even in dungeon dim the resemblance to Dorea Black was uncanny. Minerva reckoned the girl was a first cousin, Belvina’s child, maybe or not. After all, the Black tree was twisted and sprawling.]_

The wizard considered his daughter with disdain and hidden agendas.

“Crying is for the weak, _ma fille_. _Crucio_.” He held out the spell placidly, practiced by the many times before.

The witchling levitated for short moment, hands clawing at the wall behind her. The spell intensified and her head snapped back, catching stone on the way down. She fell to rock bottom, biting her lip with twitches.

_[Unable to intervene, the professor gritted her teeth. Minerva didn’t suffer abusers. Or child users. Had it been present time, she’d have killed this boogeyman good and dead; her untimely gift to the world.]_

The Crucio continued and the red spell light flashed like seedy motel. Sprawled on stone, the child stifled her mouth, unbidden pain still sounding from her throat. At the failure, the wizard imperiled her ears.

“And here I thought we’d tempted progress. Speak your mantra, girl, and perhaps solace will find you there.” The spell held and spilled like blooding sun.

Wand trained on the exhausted witch, the wizard provoked stramash and seizure. Several times her lips parted, tripping over obedience, and the man’s grin was maniacal. His spell strength increased and the witch caterwauled a frightening storm across the walls. He tortured the girl until she managed words; they poured from her mouth, all sneering and sore and stuttered.

“Tttttooujours pur…Toujours pu-rrrr,” the witch chattered out, her teeth sharp and mind gritted.

The wizard’s wand lingered longingly but lowered reluctantly. Robes portentous, he approached his ward.

“Next time you confuse mudblood filth for playmates,” he hissed acridly, “I won’t be so lenient.”

He yanked the witch by her mane and dragged her upright. Her head drooped in fatigue, limp hair curling over her face. The wizard forced her chin up. Blood and dirt marred her face—warred like warrior—but her spirit was blatant and earnest, far too clever to tempt the devil further. The little witch was near collapse, beaten into magical submission, but her eyes were midnight oil and flashed surefire.

_[Horrified at the unforgivable and Unforgiveable, Minerva’s face was stonework. Internally, she winced at the girl’s hatred, heady like Eden. The professor knew that it festered, hooked to the earth like dagger and waiting for the years to swagger.]_

The witchling threw back a rebellious strength, one that should have frolicked on the moors, not kept secrets behind doors. She let it shine through but made no other move. The man considered the chit, appreciating her for various and nefarious reasons. His child was willful and he underestimated the danger of this. He only saw power and the potential to wield it.

_[The professor was privy to the witch’s promise as well. It comforted Minerva that the little witch retained fight and politics; she would need it to survive her sire. Such self-preservation was uncanny and the witch seemed…the professor couldn’t place it, but it was a quality she’d seen before. She was a fierce art rendered, this child. This witch. This fire-starter.]_

“You are eldest, _ma cherie_. Lest another succeeds your place.” The wizard put this casual threat into existence.

The subtle witch narrowed her eyes and brewed, deciding she ought show panic for consistency.

_[McGonagall noted the child’s clenched fists, gripped in her sweat-ridden robes. The professor pondered the gesture and wondered if the fists were in fear…or restraint. Foreboding washed her over, her dread on the edge of known things.]_

“It will’na happen again, Papa,” the child whispered placidly, focusing on her scuffed shoes.

The wizard yielded his grip on curls and her knees buckled, swaying until she found steady. She knew better than to cringe as the wizard grazed her cheek with knuckle, his wand still at the ready.

“Don’t leave your sisters without their beloved star-chart.” His words fluctuated between truth and mockery.

Her eyes arrowed at the ground, appropriately dulled.

_[But Minerva saw the witch’s lip curl. It was so slight that—in his diatribe—the monster noticed it not. Minerva recognized that derisive expression and had a nasty sense…]_

“I know your ringing heart, _étoile_. Cici is your weakness. They both are.”

If glee was indication, he enjoyed having the last word. The mention of Cici snapped the girl’s head upward, true fear blazing on her rounded face. She trembled compliance and terror pulled her every tendon taut.

_[Minerva’s chest hurt at that sheer fear for another; the little witch was already adept at managing her own distress. Past or not, it didn’t stop McGonagall’s wishful thinking, wanting to arm the girl with wand or safety. The name Cici niggled at her. Frowning, she recalled Dee having a score of ridiculous nicknames for her cousins, Cedrella in particular (even after her excommunication). Minerva felt the witch’s abject anger pulse the memory—a future retribution promised—and she winced as the child’s expression shifted to feigned acquiescence. This had to be Callidora, Cedrella’s older sister. Not a daughter of Belvina, after all. She’d met Calli once at a Ministry ball; the woman had been all sin and smirk.]_

“Do better or I double Cici’s lessons,” the wizard said.

The little witch readily agreed, so swift was her nod. She stood and cocked her chin, the motion a fingerprint.

_[Minerva blenched with denial.]_

“The punishment is mine and mine _alone_.” She met the tall wizard with eye and arrogance.

He chuckled and twirled his wand thoughtfully.

“Oh, _ma belle_ , I am punishing you. When they hurt, you bleed.” Papa smoothed her matted hair and caressed her face gently. His slap SMACKKKKed and resonated in the room, the ricochet of terrible lessons taught.

_[The professor was a helpless spectator as a large handprint formed, stark red on the witch’s cheek. Forgetting the rules, McGonagall drew her wand only to find herself incorporeal.]_

The child’s eyes watered and her bottom lip shivered something awful, but neither sound nor tear released. Pleased, the wizard in dark robes smiled and kissed her curled brow with praise. The little girl flinched but relaxed into his embrace, a tentative smile gracing her face. She’d done her daddy proud.

“Love is weak,” he said.

“Love is weak,” she repeated, pounding her brain into ground.

The wizard scoffed at her wet eyes.

“Keep your salt. Blacks are without room for drivel.” He consulted himself and concluded, “Dismissed.”

The witch breathed. Painted in abuse, the girl placed her small hand in his.

“I did well, Papa?” The witch radiated sincerity despite the seeds of rebellion.

_[Minerva shuddered, hating the underbelly of adults and their cowardly hoods. Still, the chit was child, seeking to please father. As children so often do.]_

“ _Ma_ Bellatrix you did better, not best.” His compliment was backhanded. “Narcissa has better mastered her emotions, but your improvement is noted. We’ll double your lessons, not hers.”

Simultaneously, Bella’s face knelled and fell. Downcast, her curls hid this from her sire, lest he should beat her for the weakness. She padded after him, out the heavy stone door, thanking the stars for Cici’s emotive skill, far better than her own.

_[Minerva’s heart reeled—Cici was Cissa—and she raged. Denial done, she accepted the battered child as Bellatrix before being thrown to the next memory.]_

The dungeon door clanked closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so was 1953. Read and review, darlings.


	6. Summer 1957 – Stellar Nights

_Summer 1957. The ravine._

_[Unlike the last memory, Minerva felt squished; her consciousness too bulky for this two-dimensional plane. Memory palaces are fickle that way and spacetime continuums have no regard for human capacity. The professor had room for one thought only, thinking that, ‘Childhood memories don’t suffer adults easily.’ The rest was lost to Bella’s recollection and Minerva tried not to pani—]_

Many generations had claimed the ravine boulder for playmate; it was well suited for climbing, contraband, and all sorts of larks. This particular generation was a favourite and the starlets were young and growing: Cissy a twee ten and Bellatrix a restive twelve. Meda was happily mediumed and middled.

The rock remained as it was—for a rock it was, stone and stolid—but its human kin stretched their bones and burgeoned. Adolescence was on the horizon, so the boulder left pretend arts behind and became a watch point. And when night was right and sneak-away was friend, two Black children relished themselves in the sky, their awed hands tracing constellations therein.

Tonight, however, Narcissa was a tagalong admirer, her name not amongst the stars. Imprudently, the sisters snuck Cissy out of the manor through Meda’s ground-floor bedroom; there was a first time for everything. Andromeda led the path and Bellatrix cajoled sleepy Cissy along, smirking and promising to take the heat if they were caught. Once out on the moorlands, Narcissa didn’t give much thought to punishment or to her bed. She matched Bella’s strides, running and tripping with her gaze stuck on the moon. In the dark, Cissy’s face mirrored the moonbeams. Their escape-run complete, the three sisters caught their breath on the damp grass, flopping to the ground and rolling over to stare at the stars. They lay supine by the boulder, the rush of the ravine not far from their feet. Bellatrix was close on Cissy’s right, but Andromeda frolicked and sprawled a couple meters off, preferring a healthy space between her thoughts and her sisters. The wind was dewy tonight and Bella wasn’t opposed to leaving Meda the damper grass.

Regardless, their protective unit was intact, sister stars playing sentry for their flower.

Bella’s dress billowed brawn in the breeze. It wisped Cissy’s shins like cattails and she wondered why Bellatrix was still dressed for day. Narcissa hadn’t a good concept of time, having been woken from the dead of sleep by Meda’s bouncy plotting. She couldn’t decide if they were closer to sunset or rise. The evening star ignited green and the blonde fidgeted on the ground, rubbing the last of dreams from her eyes and wriggling the grass down pat, her spot a tad lumpy. Cissy situated and her arm bumped into Bellatrix. To her credit, Bella restrained from her usual bile, leaving Narcissa happy for the rare calm of company. Her eldest sister wasn’t much for quality time that didn’t involve conflict. Bellatrix proceeded to yank out a clump of grass, much to nature’s discontent and Meda’s disdaining scoff. Off in her own world, Andromeda muttered something about the sanctity of nature and tromped several more meters down the hill, leaving her impish sisters to each other.

The blonde was quiet and Bella was intent at the stars.

Cissy wasn’t a loud creature, but the blonde’s spirit wasn’t usually so subdued. It had been a trying week and perhaps that accounted for their easy camaraderie in the uneven-keeled evening. Bella poked Narcissa’s shoulder and Cissy ignored the invitation; she wasn’t done pretending to be cross. Bellatrix made an amused sound and tweaked Cissy’s golden tresses, all but hueless in the night. Narcissa relaxed a bit, her stubborn head finding Bella’s shoulder. It was solid as the ground, but far comfier. Bellatrix patted her sister’s head gracelessly and they didn’t speak. They watched the sky. Every now and then Bella traced the air with something to see: a shooting star or the bounds of some esoteric constellation.

Cissy hadn’t seen Bella for most of the month, which was normal these days. Papa was keen on training them and was rather insistent on separate lessons. Divide and conquer, was his game, and Bellatrix saw fit to let him think he’d won. But sisters had a habit of supporting one another, distance merely a tool that might flummox a brother. As it was, Andy and Bella were adding Cissa to their formal ranks tonight, marking her as another point in their tern, no longer just their charge and tagalong.

Bella glanced over at her sister’s attire and raised an amused brow; the blonde would grow into their trio.

Narcissa’s nightgown was very fussy—thanks to Maman’s terrible taste—all frills and bows. Fondly, Bella idled a wayward pleat that poofed into her space; she found the texture restful. The darker witch waited out her sister, having learned infinite patience for this. Yes, the blonde was peeved but there was a deeper upset, and Bella knew Narcissa couldn’t skirt in her night-skirt forever. But for now they continued side by side and gazing upward. The stars dusted the sky and showered their bodies with old light. Bella traced the shining dots of Orion for the third time and then turned onto her left side with a tiny smirk, shifting Cissy’s face abruptly to the grassy earth. Narcissa was treated to a short-lived mouthful of grass, her squeak of indignation lost on a zephyr. She turned to Bellatrix—fully prepared to throw fighting words—but lost her tongue at the solemn eyes regarding her. Used to the serious things that fell between children, Cissy’s retort dissipated. Bellatrix turned her regard back to the unnerved sky, though her expression seemed wistful and conflicted.

_In the absence of a place to be_  
_She lies there looking back at me_  
_Hesitates and then turns away_

“Hah! Found me.” Late to the party, Meda’s muffled delight broke the night. The stars moved with the sky and had to be re-hunted across the seasons. Andromeda’s happy tune traveled up from the ravine and cited other constellations. “Sirius. Regulus too.” Meda’s joy sang like a linnet and struck the youngest sister with sudden jealousy.

Bella snorted something back to Andy but Cissy missed it, too focused on other matters.

Narcissa was petulant, safe in the night with Bellatrix near, but her deepest recesses were dark tonight. In the pitch, the little witch thought a great deal about babies. Why the Blacks had broken tradition with her birth, no one would ever tell. There was a naming committee for Salazar’s sake. Black children, save for Narcissa, were named for the firmament. She alone was saddled to a stupid and mal-mythologized flower. Denied a star, Narcissa felt relegated to an earthly exile. She wasn’t less favoured by her parents, but then again they didn’t really favor anyone.

Stubbornly, her gaze tilted to the sky once again, blue eyes wide at the immortalized legends. Cissy considered her middle sister’s constellation. Soft with fuzzied light, the Andromendas suited each other well enough (ironies of the woman chained still yet to come). If Meda found concord in her constellation, then Bellatrix burned brilliantly like her own sky-flung warrior. This left Narcissa bound to earth by her namesake flower, wilting in the sun. There were other worries too. Under the moonlight, her angry tears were sad and the silver galvanized her cheeks. Their parents slept back in the Manor and night made the distance greater. Safer.

“You’re blue and green as the grass,” Bellatrix murmured, unused to seeing the blonde indulge tears, angry or otherwise. Then again they hadn’t spent much time together this summer.

“Oh shut it,” Narcissa snapped tearfully, not in the mood for Bella’s wit.

Tonight, Bellatrix had sought out the moors and let Andy think it was her own plan. Andromeda had needed freedom and found it by the river now, the space from her sisters and the space above doing her wonders. Narcissa, however, needed to process and apparently needed some guiding. Having waiting out the upset long enough, Bellatrix took the blonde’s hand and tugged her kid sis into an awkward embrace. The children hugged on the grass, Cissy’s hiccups jumping them every now and then. Bella let the witch compose a bit before breaking them back to normal. They pulled away, their heads on the ground, their hair spilled all around.

The breeze continued gently and the ravine still rushed.

Cissy felt a hearth building. She turned towards Bellatrix, this time unsurprised by the dark eyes already waiting. Bella had an odd timing about her. Narcissa meant to whine at her sister and move away from melancholy, but Bella’s expression was less caustic than usual and it messed with the trajectory. Instead, Cissy huffed and let her head make pillow on the grass.

“I’m fine,” the little girl said. “Stop that or I’ll jinx all your boots a size too small.”

“I haven’t worn shoes in days,” Bellatrix trilled, obnoxiously. Seriously, though, she addressed the elephant that Narcissa wouldn’t. “There won’t be another after you. I overheard Rosier in the study this morning.” Bella studied the blonde’s face, gauging Cissy’s maturity. She decided that ritual overrode some things. “She’s in the main crypt, in the Unnamed room,” Bellatrix said carefully. “I’ll take you if you want.” She regretted that Cissy’s introduction to birth was death.

“Yes,” said Narcissa coldly. She had a sprig of Dittany to impart. “But they would have named her for a star.” Her voice found childhood again and Narcissa was wistful at the stars, wondering if past people lived there after death, wondering if unformed babies were people at all. Cissy had been unsettled all week. All those adults, not one acknowledging that Maman’s rounded belly was suddenly too flat again. “I hate being the only flower.”

“You’re not blooming for them. Bloom for you,” Bellatrix said, not addressing their shared sense of loss and relief.

The Black sisters didn’t have it in them to protect another child from their parents. So the miscarriage was welcomed, though there wasn’t language to describe the blessed mourning of that. Quite suddenly, Narcissa was exceedingly grateful for her sisters. Unable to stop it, she wondered if the baby would have been towheaded. Bella’s thumb eased a teardrop, one of several still orbiting the slope of Cissy’s face; it collected like moonlight and fell away to the grass. Bellatrix went on, ignoring her sister’s discomfit.

“Cissy, you’ll be the last of us, so don’t doubt your place.” Puckishly, Bellatrix poked Narcissa’s side puckishly, considering those pale blues with intent. “I wanted to name you _Sonne_. It’s the only star bright enough for day.

Narcissa blinked, having no framework for that.

Mostly to herself, Bellatrix haunted a half verse. “ _Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move…_ ”

Narcissa wouldn’t know the end of that stanza for years to come. In the meanwhile, they continued in their universe and Meda continued with them, aeons away. Their silence was studded and neither poked further. Choosing childhood, Bellatrix let the moment fall away and traded it for haughty cheer.

“Clearly, they misheard my suggestion,” Bellatrix scoffed, her mirth abundant. “It was hard to hear above the ruckus. Papa yelling, the midwife badgering, and Maman yowling.”

Cissy giggled. The idea of prim Druella making any sound other than proper was amusing to say the least. It was uncouth. Completely mental.

“I was ever so glad when you finally shoved out.”

“Ew, Bella.”

“Pretty much.”

Another titter from Narcissa, followed by a lingering hiccup. Her head found Bella’s shoulder again. Lazily, Bellatrix twirled a blonde lock and flipped the gold between her fingers.

“You are you, Cici, regardless of name. At least it was a flower and not some idiot heroine questing for some idiot man.” Bella crooked a half-grin and giggled girlishly. Lit by the man of the moon, her laugh gave way to her trademark smirk.

Cissy’s humor lifted at the peculiar feeling Bella always evoked: the light of a thousand solstice nights. Childishly, Narcissa poked her sister in the side (twice) garnering an alarmed squeal and swear. Bellatrix scoffed, when she could breathe again. Laughing, Cissy nosed Bella’s nose with an impish nuzzle. Bellatrix made a front of protest, but her grin belied it. Encouraged, Narcissa squished Bella’s face between her palms, giggling something ridiculous at the pudgy cheeks. Cissy expected Bella’s usual after their seldom heart-to-hearts: a fond eye-roll and caustic words. But this time played anomaly and Bellatrix didn’t pull away. The blonde blinked, enthralled by Bella’s eyeballs so close. They looked like grapes, all purple and round. She told Bella as much and Bellatrix blatantly accused her of cannibalism and then proceeded to tickle the crap out of her.

Unceremoniously, Andromeda hissed at them from her private knoll, telling them shut it and stop disturbing the stars. Bellatrix told Andy to stop being an asshat and Narcissa burst into another round of giggles, ceasing only when Bella’s hand clamped over her mouth, exasperated. They were a ways out on the property and the moors lost most sounds. Still, they didn’t want to risk waking their parents; nothing good would come of that. Bellatrix hushed her baby sister, not wanting Meda to come walloping back their way either, rich with righteousness. Andromeda was often Bella’s partner in crime, but goddess the witch could be a know-it-all. Narcissa finally quieted, her eyes brighter than before and now brighter than the Dog Star. Before the blonde could do something gross, like lick her palm, Bellatrix lifted her hand away, her amusement still present and tinged with a twinkle. They went back to their beds on the grass.

“They don’t see me,” Cissy finally said, some time later. The family prided itself on its quietest daughter, well behaved and well neglected.

Seriously, Bellatrix frowned at the sky, unable to convey the blessing of that.

“Dunderheads, the lot of them. Tell you what, Cissy…” Impishly she thwapped Narcissa’s stomach and promised, “Should the need call, I’ll hex and eviscerate our family once I’m grown.”

“Charming,” Narcissa scoffed, but she appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

“Only for you,” Bellatrix grinned.

They didn’t recognize the accidental magic sweeping the moors, not even Andromeda, just a stone-throw down the hill. The moors answered Bella’s heartfelt promise by way of a magicked oath, roasting like star-stuff.

“I see you, Cissa,” Bellatrix said quietly, “and sunny you’ll stay.”

The sentiment was warm and fuzzy, like the Butterbeer Uncle Rosier snuck them on occasion. Cissa (no longer just Cissy) snugged herself up to Bella’s side. With a small grin, she didn’t protest the noogie, which fondly knuckled her locks into a ridiculous muss. Tucked beneath Bella’s chin, Cissa was not astonished to find that she felt better. Such was Bellatrix. Such was Narcissa. And that stellar feeling never left.

_She's entwined in me, crazy as can be_  
_She's all right, she's all right with me_  
_And this is the end_  
_This is the end of the innocence_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review, lovelies. 
> 
> Credits: Colbie Caillat – Brighter Than The Sun, Counting Crows – Mercury, Don Henley – The End of Innocence, William Shakespeare – Hamlet


	7. August 1963 – Impossible Days

_August 1963. The ravine._

_[_ _The ravine scene swirled and then settled in the same spot. The sudden crinkle in time unnerved the professor but—now reinflated—her mind permitted three-dimensionality back into its quarters. She huffed, sad and fond at the childhood scene she’d just witnessed. Bella had a close relationship with her sisters at Hogwarts, but they were a private bunch. Though if anyone was privy it was the professor, either by design or accident. The last memory had been an unexpected page in the bookends of the trio. Still, Minerva wondered when Bella had lost her blitheness. She didn’t wonder any less now, but she recognized the ravine. In the daylight it was no less beautiful.]_

Bellatrix sat atop the flat and sizeable rock, watching the wide stream rush and pop. It thrashed pleasantly in the daylight, the moors girding its path through the Blacklands. The ravine wandered past the property line like a narrow scepter, edging the moorland with rule and jewel. Lost to thought, Bellatrix caressed the worn boulder, her hand warmed by history and the dim summer sun. The hard grain had aged fine, tumbled smooth by the elements. Bella absorbed the dull heat and embraced the rock as old friend survival.

_[The professor watched her apprentice with a sore sadness, seeing that six years had steeled the witch.]_

Bellatrix had matured into sullen splendor, her thundering eyes stark and careful ringlets dark. Her features had lost their childhood, cutting angles into jawline and collarbones into grace. In an overdone fashion, the day was overcast and humid, Bella’s navy dress far too ornate for the nineteen-year-old.

_[Eighteen, Minerva self-corrected. The dark witch was a winter bairn and December had summer months to kill first. Bellatrix was far too tailored, her curls far too spell-ridden; it had to be the summer right before Hogwarts. Bella was the oldest of her academic cohort as the Black children started a year or two later than most. The professor observed her protégé-to-be. This Bellatrix was closer to the one she knew, that first and trying year.]_

Overcast or not, the late summer’s day was too stuffy for finery. The stiff dress was helpful at the moment, but it didn’t help the heat. Bellatrix stretched and winced. Her sleeve bunched up a centimeter, allowing her arm a modicum of relief. A slight discoloration could be seen on her exposed skin.

_[Minerva squinted at the unwelcome saffron, her unhappy suspicions roused. The professor understood the witch’s choice though; the dress restricted movement and somewhat stabilized the sore limb.]_

In the distance, the elaborate manor loomed, gothic against the gloomy sky of Wiltshire. The territory was settled long ago by French pure-bloods, primarily those of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. For centuries, many a generation of Black, Lestrange, Malfoy, Prewett, and Rosier had dwelled there. On the chalk downlands, neighbors were far and few between, though apparition points made travel easy enough. Black kin were found thickly throughout the area, but Manor Noir sang like aria on the rolling moors. Despite the wet climate, it was a drought for Bellatrix; a jaded prison where thirst reigned and hope was porous like the land.

Bellatrix clutched a familiar missive, bearing the Hogwarts seal in red. Less than eager, the witch held the letter limply and without enthusiasm. Atop the rock she was a disenchanted maid, indeed.

_[Knowing Bella’s fondness for Hogwarts, the professor didn’t understood the forlorn expression, better suited to a funeral.]_

Footsteps crunched in the valley and another girl came into sight, this witch also overdressed for the afternoon. She was younger, softer by a year or so. Bellatrix was stark whereas her companion was understated, mellowed by her gait and wavy curls. The two were unmistakably sisters, that heritage made clear by their jaw cuts and posture. Andromeda perched on the flat rock beside Bellatrix—the linnet by the brooding crow—waiting with an uplifted patience too calm and practiced for her youth.

Half a candlemark passed in this fancy fashion.

_[The professor wished they were frolicking about, instead of spending the summer’s day mooding and brooding. Anyone else and Minerva would have grown restless, but Bella was Bella. She watched the witch’s face cycle through a multitude of expression, none of them simple. A better emote could not be found but Bellatrix was no easy open heart. Only an angry pearl, irritating sand and all.]_

Bella allowed her emotion to wander, knowing its worth.

“Andy _,_ ” she said thickly, lamenting existence. Bellatrix laid her mane and hearty affection on her sister’s shoulder. The brunette had an annoying way trilling out her teenage tortures.

_[Minerva decided that names signaled paradigm shifts. Cici had become Cissy, then Cissa. Andromeda was Meda, with the acquired Andy of adolescence.]_

“Might as well open it,” Andy asserted wryly. “The contents will be the same regardless.”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes and handed Andromeda the letter; the brunette took it without comment. Bella righted herself and looked away, impassive as her sister broke the seal. The wax cracked, speckling the rock with red flecks. Bella pressed them into the stone, pushing and scraping the discontent under her fingernails.

“ _September 1st_ ,” Andy read aloud. “Less than a fortnight,” she wagged.

“Fascinating,” Bellatrix flattened. “Not at all predictable, given last year’s letter.”

_[The professor pursed her lips to hell, remembering last year. Minerva hadn’t recognized Bella’s father in the first leg of this queer journey; the room had been shadowed and his face absent of beard. But McGonagall had no issue bringing Cygnus’ more modern visage to mind. Shivers goosefleshed the ether as the professor recalled her jaunt to Wiltshire in 1962. Such a sterile and crushing place for a bairn to grow. And wilt.]_

* * *

_Manor Noir was its own planet._

_Monsieur Cygnus Black staunchly adhered to the pure-blood traditions of old. In the olden days, children of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black were privately tutored for the entirety of their education. So alas, since its inception, education had been a point of contention between Hogwarts and House Black. This tension was half-resolved in 1710, when the Ministry finally enacted public education laws, compelling primary education. Of course, families who could afford the luxury self-selected their children into private academies._

_Primary education ended at age seventeen (the age of majority) and could be completed at any formal magical academy or through homeschooling. However, there weren’t any core standards—not like in the muggle world—at least not until secondary form (similar to what the muggles called university). Technically, secondary education could be administered by any approved educator, but Cygnus sure as shit wasn’t having his home curriculum audited by the Ministry._

_If academia were the sole consideration, Cygnus would have wanded for Durmstrang but there were other societal benefits to having three lovely daughters close to home. Druella would have preferred Beauxbatons, but no one else (the sisters included) fancied such frill. Fluent in the mother tongue or not, the British Blacks quite preferred to keep their French relatives at a distance; the Noir conclave every seven years was by far enough._

_Effectively, this left Hogwarts as the preferred option. At least then Cygnus could resume his brand of education in the summers. Not surprisingly, Black avoided Ministry-compelled legalities as long as possible, homeschooling the starlets through academy age and then some. Cygnus was a devout brute in this, citing the old Black scriptures as religious pretext. Black had friends in high places, prompting the Department of Education to be wishy-washy and rather lenient on the grounds of diversity (of all things). And so, the Blacks were permitted a year of slack on their homeschooling timeline, if only to avoid the press coverage during election year._

_However, this only came about after a major headache._

_Cygnus had failed to file the proper paperwork for a religious extension. So as she would with any truancy, Professor McGonagall followed up on the morning of September 2, 1962 when Bellatrix Black (aged seventeen) failed to arrive on the Hogwarts Express the day prior._

_Their tête-à-tête had been a most colorful exchange and Minerva had it out with that wall of man, their stifled magic sparking the air with ozone. Cygnus had filled the room with vile dogma and pure-blood rhetoric—ill disguised as parental concern—and McGonagall had been hard pressed to refrain from hexing the man sideways. She did take great pleasure in disgracing his halls by virtue of her half-blood veins. And the wizard took great pleasure in refusing to sign Bella’s extension form, stating that he’d only parley with the headmaster._

_Frankly more annoyed than offended, Minerva had hissed goodbye pleasantries like wartime, snapping that her commander would be in touch._

_The professor remembered Manner Noir like a prison, but most of all she recalled the two glittering eyes that tracked her movements on the way out. Liquid like beetle juice, they were wide with empty and peered down the stairwell at her. It wasn’t her first introduction to Bellatrix, but it certainly was the most recent since some society event a few years prior. The professor had nodded at the witch, who’d raised an eyebrow toward the door, her dark eyes warning the professor against prolonged exposure._

_So Minerva had left, taking new curiosities and the unsigned contract with her.  
  
Private training, her Scottish arse…more like kernel of truth in rotting cob. McGonagall snarked this disdainfully to the headmaster, rudely informing Albus that he could personally deal with Cygnus Black’s stance on his progeny’s education. But she couldn’t shake the eyes of the eldest daughter, nor the eerie feeling Manor Noir left in her bones, much like a Dementor sleeping cove. To this day, Minerva had no idea what methods Albus employed, but the two men had struck some accord without war; starting with Bellatrix—and without further battle—the star-crossed starlets would begin formal education at Hogwarts at age eighteen. _

_The Ministry signed off on it and that was that, until the compromise was put to practice in September 1963._

* * *

Andy perused the acceptance letter and ignored Bella’s mundane acidity. Scoffing, Bellatrix re-crossed her legs with aggravation. In the jostle, the dark witch knocked her arm and hissed before she could curb it. Startled from reading, Meda glanced at her sister—the flash of violet loud on her pale wrist—and hastily drew her wand. She sliced the sleeve all the way up to Bella’s elbow and frowned at her findings. Bellatrix snarled at the invasion and waited for censure.

_[Minerva stiffened at the black and purple bruising, the terrible kind from snapped bones. It clung to her protégé’s flesh, winding up her limb like seaweed. The break was internal, nothing displaced but bone and faith in adults.]_

“Oh, Bella,” Andromeda hissed, the fracture clear. “Why didn’t you fix it?”

“I tripped,” the dark witch drawled absurdly and Andromeda gritted her teeth at the satire. Contrarily, Bella continued, “It’s my better casting arm and I didn’t want to risk permanent damage. Otherwise I would’ve fixed it yesterday.”

“You slept on this?”

“It was late and I wanted pudding.”

Andy raised an eyebrow, a kinder rendition of her sister’s trademark.

“I have limits you know,” Bellatrix snapped and glared reproachfully. “You were drooling sleep and Cissa didn’t need the stress. I won’t overextend her, not yet.”

Andromeda nodded, more than aware; Narcissa was better suited to healing and would take up the mantle in the years to come, but for now Meda had the advantage of practice. She flexed her hands in warm-up and (despite her funk) Bellatrix allowed the cast.

“ _Brackium Emendo_ ,” Meda spelled, ignoring her sourpuss sister.

_[Minerva was surprised at Andy’s skill. Without secondary education, wandless spells were unreliable at best. The professor didn’t count Cygnus’ brand of torture as education but it appeared the witches were well-learned regardless; she suspected Bella’s instruction played a hearty role, along with the annexed library for which Manor Noir was notorious. Either way, Minerva hoped that Andromeda’s skill wasn’t born of necessity. She watched the witch float easy hands over Bella’s arm, murmuring her well-practiced magic.]_

The arm glowed bright white and then with a sickening crack (and a wince from Bellatrix) the bone reset into proper place. Andy’s hands still hovered and their glow segued to blue, fusing bone and fading the bruises. When Andromeda finally relaxed, only a mottled yellow lingered on Bella’s skin. Rotating the mended limb, Bellatrix tested its movement accordingly. Pleased, she tweaked Andy’s nose in thanks.

“Why, Meda, you’ve improved,” the dark witch sanctioned.

Her eyes glinted in the slash of sunlight that broke the clouds. Concentrating, Bella’s lashes fluttered shut. With a flourish, she twisted her healed arm at the wrist, her fingers following into a light fist. Palm up, her hand opened, revealing a lily growing at alarming speed. Still burgeoning, Andy plucked the gift from its sinewy soil and held it out like a fresh new moon.

_[Like Andromeda, the professor was enchanted by the intricate magic, far more advanced than the healing spell.]_

“Pristine as new.” Bella indicated the flower as her casting strength and chuckled at Meda’s vexed expression.

The lily blossomed in full and Bellatrix snagged it from Andy’s hand. She wove the bloom through her sister’s chestnut locks, letting it rest above an ear. Much like Bella’s thanks, it shimmered there understated, implicit and understood. Meda’s eyes twinkled amusement but held reprimand all the same.

“Aye, I’ve had too much practice.” Her admonishment hung awkwardly, killing levity with murky matters. Abruptly, Andy switched gears. “Why did you spend a month warding our chambers?”

Bellatrix’s face flashed wide at the non sequitur and a flat expression _[one annoyingly familiar to Minerva]_ took hold. Not fooled, Andromeda continued shrewdly.

“Oh Salazar, spare me your savior complex and save the naivety for Cissy. I know things she doesn’t.”

“Don’t underestimate her, Andy,” Bellatrix snapped.

Narcissa was their youngest at sixteen, but her counsel wasn’t less valued. Still, Andromeda wasn’t wrong; there were burdens that Bellatrix preferred to house away from their youngest sister. Bella rose precipitously, pushing off the rock and into the grass. Red crumbs of wax went with her.

“I keyed the wards to your magicks.” Bellatrix stood with her back to Andromeda, hiding whatever emotions ruled her face. Whatever emotions did not. “After I’m gone to Hogwarts, you two are without protection.” Her stomach rebelled but Bella said it anyway. “At the very least, with virtue safe, you can rest easy in bedchambers…” She trailed off, her broken arm the evidence of a bad night spent.

A beat and Bellatrix prayed her sister would remain seated.

“He hasn’t, oh he _has_!” Andy blurted out, running to her impassive sister. Bellatrix caught the frantic charge, shoring comfort as her sister husked misery. Beside herself, Meda whispered nonsense. “How could you let him… _again_? You must tell Maman. Or Mobi. Mobi could…you mu—”

“Yes, because the house-elf will surely save us.” The dark witch’s derision was on point. “And let him? As if he heeds decency.” Bellatrix snorted at the victim blaming, albeit pleased that her sister didn’t understand those dark corners. Still, how annoying that Andromeda hadn’t escaped the bounds of self-imposed misogyny. And so Bellatrix reminded. “And tell Maman what exactly, Andy? That he prefers his daughter to wife as a bed warmer? You know as well as I do that he considers it part of my… _training_.” They’d been safer as children; adolescence had brought many bad things, Cygnus’ lingering eyes, among them.

Andromeda was thoroughly horrified and Bellatrix suspected she ought be too, but reality and _her_ reality had different codes. She didn’t have room for two.

_[Professor McGonagall retched, sick at the connotation. Her mind sputtered and clawed savagely, unable to purchase denial, not with the crime so bluntly voiced. Her hatred for Cygnus swelled. A father…with his own child.]_

Bella loosened her embrace and smoothed back the hair stuck to Andy’s tear-riled face. Bellatrix understood Meda’s emotion and sorely wished she hadn’t said anything at all. Not to this one. Bellatrix hugged the witch briefly and thought of this morning, when she’d woken on Narcissa’s window settee. _Cissa, sprawled nearby in the white canopy bed, the matching curtains shifting in the window breeze. Cissa, fast asleep in the rooster-edged morning. Cissa, the sister Bella had sought after a terrible night of normal. Even in sleep, Narcissa calmed her. The blonde witch hadn’t woken, already lost to dreamland when Bella snuck in; same as when she snuck out. Unnecessarily, Bellatrix had tucked the witch in and left without sound._

Andromeda sniffed a heavy sigh and rebuilt composure. Her hand squeezed Bella’s in the way that was theirs. The ravine queen squeezed back and pressed her face against Andy’s, brushing their lips chastely. Meda relaxed into the touch, the sizzle of tears now silent.

_[The professor picked it as danger though she was unclear why. Such affection was commonplace between close family members and friends, especially between women; the United Wizarding Kingdom was European after all. But the professor felt a rush, some kind of magic siphoning between the two sisters. The taboo popped loudly in her veins like jellyfish stings, a feeling most unsettling. The odd attraction simmered and McGonagall realized it was blood magic she tasted, ancient and indelible. Like kraken leaking ocean.]_

Bella pulled away and tapped her sister’s cheek. Andromeda had quieted, her eyes baleful with caution and wonder.

“Then again,” Bellatrix whispered, “the world should condemn us for other Black traditions.” She brushed the apple of Andy’s cheek and pulled away.

_[The professor understood nothing of these traditions, but from Andromeda’s troubled expression it was not a subject spoken about. Aloud, that is.]_

But Bellatrix moved on, along, spinning the primeval story of three threads.

“ _Daughter, thee, if one of three: two are strong, the middle free,_ ” Bella quoted from the bloodrite legend. _“_ As eldest I inherit the strongest. Narcissa strongest after me.” It wasn’t a new concept but it whetted the air with tension.

“The family archives are salty, Bella. You’re supposed to take them with a grain,” Andromeda protested wryly. “The gift is fickle at best. It’s just a Black story, meant to frighten children into obedience.” She dismissed the notion but her tone was tight.

“Fear might be warranted,” Bella said quietly. “You and Cissa have a few seasons before quickening, but mine was yesterday.” Bellatrix twirled a chestnut curl around her finger, allotting Andy’s life-thread. With some resentment she spoke the scissor cut aloud. “And as Black lore goes, you may not inherit at all. Then again, _free_ means many things.”

Thunder rumbled above them and the moor clouds finally broke silver linings. Rain fell like dying stars, soaking the land and squashing the light. The flash flood hit hard, rampaging the summer lands. Already caught, the sisters trudged muddily back to the manor, the rush of water over their feet, Andromeda despondent, and Bellatrix keeping busy.

She hummed eerily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review, lovely creatures.


End file.
